ANNE   DILLON 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

Mrs.  Helen  A.  Dillon 


The  NOCTURNE  of  more  than  one  night. 

Long  ago  Arnold  Bennett  spoke  of 
Frank  Swinnerton's  *  'disturbing  insight 
into  the  hearts  and  brains  of  girls"  as 
one  of  his  principal  gifts.  It  is  a  gift 
which,  hitherto,  Swinnerton  may  be 
said  to  have  utilized  for  comparatively 
brief  glimpses,  devastating  but  not 
prolonged  revelations. 

In  THE  THREE  LOVERS  the  novelist  is 
concerned  throughout  with  the  adjust- 
ments'of  a  girl  to  a  life  with  which  she 
is  entirely  unfamiliar,  and  with  her 
struggle  for  the  love  of  the  three  men 
who  are  attracted  to  her  and  to  whom 
she  feels  herself  attracted. 


THE  THREE  LOVERS 

FRANK  SWINNERTON 


BY  FRANK  SWINNERTON 

THE  THREE  LOVERS 

COQUETTE 

SEPTEMBER 

SHOPS  AND  HOUSES 

NOCTURNE 

THE  CHASTE  WIFE 

ON  THE  STAIRCASE 

THE  HAPPY  FAMILY 

THE  CASEMENT 

THE  YOUNG  IDEA 

THE  MERRY  HEART 

GEORGE  GISSING 
A  Critical  Study 

R.  L.  STEVENSON 
A  Critical  Study 


THE  THREE  LOVERS 

BY 

FRANK   SWINNERTON 

AUTHOR  OF  "COQUETTE,"  "SEPTEMBER,"  "SHOPS  AND  HOUSES," 
"NOCTURNE,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


THE  THREE  LOVERS.    II 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


College 
Ubr«, 


CONTENTS 


PART  ONE 


CHAPTER 

ONE:  THE  STUDIO 
TWO:  NEW  FRIENDS 
THREE:  PATRICIA 
FOUR'.  THE  REACTION    . 
FIVE:  EDGAR  MOVES 
SIX:  EVENING  WITH  HARRY 
SEVEN  :  SECOND  EVENING 
EIGHT  :  A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE 
NINE:  MISCHIEF 


PAGE 

9 

22 

,  44 
64 

77 
90 

107 
124 
148 


PART  TWO 

TEN  :  EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE 

ELEVEN  :  CHANGE 

TWELVE:  ENCOUNTER 
THIRTEEN:  THE  SIBYL  . 
FOURTEEN  :  ANOTHER  DAY  . 

FIFTEEN  :  CONTRAST     . 

SIXTEEN:  PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  . 
SEVENTEEN:  THE  VISITOR 
EIGHTEEN  I  BLANCHE 
NINETEEN  :  NIGHT  CALL 

TWENTY:  BABIES 


1C6098G 


163 
178 
191 

2IO 
222 
238 
256 
272 
286 
296 
3H 


PART  ONE 


THE  THREE  LOVERS 


CHAPTER  ONE:  THE  STUDIO 


IT  was  a  suddenly  cold  evening  towards  the  end  of 
September.  The  streets  were  very  dark,  because  the 
sky  was  filled  with  heavy  clouds;  and  from  time  to  time, 
carried  by  an  assertive  wind,  there  were  little  gusts  of 
fine  rain.  Everybody  who  walked  along  the  London 
pavements  shivered  slightly,  for  the  summer  had  disap- 
peared in  a  few  hours  and  had  been  buried  in  this  abrupt 
darkness;  and  the  wind  seemed  to  come  flying  from  all 
corners  of  the  earth  with  a  venom  that  was  entirely  un- 
expected. The  street-lamps  were  sharp  brightnesses  in 
the  black  night,  wickedly  revealing  the  naked  rain-swept 
paving-stones.  It  was  an  evening  to  make  one  think  with 
joy  of  succulent  crumpets  and  rampant  fires  and  warm 
slippers  and  noggins  of  whisky;  but  it  was  not  an  eve- 
ning for  cats  or  timid  people.  The  cats  were  racing 
about  the  houses,  drunken  with  primeval  savagery;  the 
timid  people  were  shuddering  and  looking  in  distress 
over  feebly  hoisted  shoulders,  dreadfully  prepared  for 
disaster  of  any  kind,  afraid  of  sounds  and  shadows  and 
their  own  forgotten  sins.  Sensitive  folk  cast  thoughts  at 
the  sea,  and  pitied  those  sailors  whose  work  kept  them 
stationary  upon  the  decks  of  reeling  vessels  already 
weather-beset.  The  more  energetic  breathed  deep  if  they 
were  out-of-doors,  or  more  comfortably  stretched  to- 
wards their  fires  if  they  were  within.  Poor  people  hud- 

9 


10  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

died  into  old  overcoats  or  sat  on  their  nipped  fingers  in 
close  unheated  rooms.  The  parsimonious  who  by  settled 
ritual  forswore  fires  until  the  first  of  October  watched 
the  calendars  and  found  an  odd  delight  in  obedience  to 
rule.  The  wind  shook  the  window-panes ;  soot  fell  down 
all  the  chimneys;  trees  continuously  rustled  as  if  they 
were  trying  to  keep  warm  by  constant  friction  and  move- 
ment. 

In  the  main  streets  the  chain  of  assembled  traffic  went 
restlessly  on,  with  crowded  omnibuses  and  tramcars,  with 
hurrying  cabs,  and  belated  carts  and  drays,  as  though  the 
day  would  never  cease.  The  footways  were  thick  with 
those  who  walked,  bent  this  way  and  that  to  meet  and 
baffle  the  sweeping  breezes.  The  noises  mingled  together 
in  one  absorbing  sound,  heard  at  a  distance  of  many 
miles,  a  far  undersong  to  the  vehement  voice  of  the 
country.  Apart  from  the  main  streets,  so  crowded  and 
busy,  London  was  peculiarly  quiet.  If  a  door  banged 
it  was  like  a  gun;  and  such  a  rumble  provoked  only  a 
sudden  start,  and  no  constriction  of  the  cardiac  muscles, 
for  Londoners  were  no  longer  accustomed  to  the  sound 
of  guns  breaking  night  silences  with  their  drum-like  roll- 
ings. Passengers  in  every  direction  instinctively  hurried, 
making  for  shelter  from  the  rainy  draughts  and  the 
promise  of  storm.  It  was  a  subtly  dismal  evening,  chilled 
and  obscure.  It  was  the  real  beginning,  however  prema- 
ture, of  a  long  hard  winter.  Those  who  had  joys  were 
sobered :  those  who  had  griefs  were  suddenly  over- 
powered by  them,  depressed  and  made  miserable  by  the 
consciousness  of  unending  sorrow.  Nobody  could  re- 
main unaffected  by  so  startling  a  change  in  the  atmos- 
phere. All  craved  light  and  warmth  and  society.  In  a 
few  hours  the  aspect  of  life  had  altered  and  winter  fore- 
bodings were  upon  the  land. 


THE  STUDIO  11 

ii 

Out  in  South  Hampstead  the  big  old  houses  stood 
black  in  the  common  murk.  Few  of  the  windows  were 
lighted.  The  only  illumination  came  from  the  street 
lamps,  which  seemed  crushed  by  the  overmastering 
clouds,  and  from  occasional  passing  cabs,  whirring 
swiftly  out  of  the  main  roads  and  losing  themselves  once 
again  within  an  instant's  space.  The  wide  roads  were 
clear,  the  noises  subdued:  one  would  have  thought  it 
midnight  and  the  shuttered  city  at  rest.  But  within  these 
comfortable  houses  the  scene  was  changed.  Fires 
brightly  burned  and  gas  or  electric  light  gave  an  enviable 
brightness  even  to  rooms  the  furniture  of  which  was 
stale  with  irremediable  ugliness.  Warmth  and  comfort 
was  in  every  house.  It  was  a  whole  district  of  warmth 
and  comfort.  And  in  one  house  especially  there  was  a 
gently  pervasive  heat,  a  subdued  brightness,  a  curiously 
wanton  elegance,  in  strong  contrast  with  the  outside 
chill.  It  was  a  long  two-storeyed  house  lying  back  from 
the  broad  road.  One  reached  it  by  means  of  a  wide 
gravel  sweep,  and  the  solid  old  door  supported  a  heavy 
knocker  of  iron.  The  house  stood  quite  alone,  as  silent 
as  its  fellows;  but  its  furnishing,  although  sparse  in  the 
modern  manner,  was  dazzling.  It  was  like  the  house  of 
a  suddenly  transported  Pasha,  and  colours  dashed  them- 
selves upon  the  eye  with  a  lustre  that  commanded  sur- 
render. To  meet  such  colours  without  a  trembling  of 
the  eyelids  would  have  been  impossible  to  normal  men. 
They  were  rich  to  a  point  of  extravagance.  They  all 
sang  together  like  the  morning  stars,  clashing  and  com- 
mingling like  the  notes  of  barbaric  music.  They  made  a 
very  beautiful  scene,  intoxicating  and  superb.  And  cun- 
ningly, as  though  some  arch  genie  had  brought  the  fur- 


12  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

nishings  hither,  they  merged  into  voluptuous  comfort. 
One  sat  in  chairs  that  rose  caressingly  about  one  like  the 
waters  of  a  river.  The  lights  were  so  shaded  that  noth- 
ing harsh  or  strident  offended  the  eye.  The  taste  of  the 
whole,  although  extraordinarily  courageous,  was  unques- 
tionable. The  owner  of  this  house,  whatever  one  might 
think  of  his  paintings,  was  obviously  a  connoisseur.  He 
knew.  He  was  upon  the  point  of  entertaining  friends  in 
his  studio.  His  hospitality  richly  ignored  and  dominated 
the  weather.  He  defied  the  outer  world,  as  though  he 
had  been  a  magician.  It  was  his  nature  to  ignore  every 
discomfort  as  he  ignored  his  correspondence;  and  this 
house,  the  home  of  a  sybarite,  was  the  symbol  of  his 
arrogant  disregard. 

Monty  Rosenberg  was  a  sublimely  and  ruthlessly 
selfish  man,  who  gave  joy  to  others  by  accident,  pur- 
suing all  the  while  his  own  luxurious  aims.  From  the 
day  of  his  birth  until  this  lamentable  evening  in  Sep- 
tember he  had  never  wished  to  benefit  anybody  but  him- 
self. He  lived  to  and  for  himself,  and  this  beautiful 
home  had  been  made  for  his  own  delight;  and  yet  the 
inscrutable  ways  of  life  had  performed  a  seeming 
miracle,  and  Monty  was  to-night  a  mere  voiceless  child 
obeying  the  decrees  of  circumstance.  He  was  preparing 
to  entertain  his  guests  in  a  mood  of  solemn  and  magistral 
calm.  He  thought  nothing  at  all  of  their  pleasure  or 
their  envy.  He  was  as  much  above  snobbery  as  he  was 
below  compassion.  But  he  had  created  an  atmosphere 
of  gorgeous  appropriateness  to  the  marvels  of  the  human 
heart,  and  the  gloomy  night  furnished  a  contrast  as  vio- 
lent as  the  most  emotional  person  in  the  world  could 
have  desired.  He  had  prepared  a  stir  of  colour  which 
must  affect  all  those  who  were  to  be  present  upon  this 
occasion. 


THE  STUDIO  13 

iii 

Monty  was  walking  about  his  studio  in  a  state  as  nearly 
approaching  self-satisfaction  as  his  sleek  pride  would 
permit.  He  relished  the  studio's  warmth,  its  beauty. 
He  sufficiently  perceived  his  own  beauty,  for  although  he 
was  fat  for  his  thirty-seven  years,  and  although  in  a 
short  time  he  would  be  subsiding  into  a  grossly  apparent 
middle-age,  Monty  carried  his  heaviness  with  an  air  of 
distinction.  His  manner  was  such  that  the  least  syco- 
phantic accorded  him  the  usual  tokens  of  respect.  He 
was  well-built;  his  clothes  were  well-cut;  his  rather  sen- 
sual face  retained  in  its  aquiline  nose  a  delicacy  and  in  its 
soft  eyes  a  suggestion  of  smouldering  fire  which  saved  it 
from  anything  like  dulness.  He  was  still  graceful  in  all 
his  movements.  His  long  black  hair  was  beautifully 
worn ;  the  single  ring  upon  his  little  finger  was  small  and 
in  keeping  with  his  fastidious  hands.  A  slight  vanity 
gave  him  unfailing  carriage  and  address.  Oxford, 
money,  talent,  all  combined  to  make  him  agreeable.  He 
had  no  friends.  There  was  no  essential  kindness  in  his 
nature.  He  was  an  artist  and  a  connoisseur,  a  viveur 
and  a  solitary,  a  quick  and  shrewd  calculator  who  would 
have  been  a  good  business  man  if  circumstances  had  not 
legitimised  his  air  of  general  unconcern  with  petty  econ- 
omies. He  was  still  a  stranger,  a  polished  and  foreign 
stranger,  to  all  his  acquaintance;  and  no  man  knew  his 
secrets.  That  he  had  secrets  was  evident.  There  was 
talk,  of  course,  about  Monty  as  there  is  about  every  man 
of  personality  in  the  world  of  chatter.  He  was  too  dis- 
creet in  his  relations  with  all — though  never  so  furtive  as 
to  hint  at  mysterious  understandings — to  avoid  altogether 
the  belief  that  he  managed  his  "affairs"  (which  were 
supposed  to  be  many)  with  skill  and  gentlemanly  cool- 
ness, and  his  manner  towards  women  was  a  little  assured. 


14  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

At  least  one  of  his  prospective  guests  had  seen  him  angry, 
when  a  kind  of  thick  toughness  of  savagery  had  flung 
breeding  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  He  was  not  a  gentle- 
man through  and  through ;  but  he  was  a  tolerable  enough 
imitation  of  one — an  imitation  that  was  not  all  counter- 
feit. The  tough  will  which  lay  behind  his  usually  suave 
manner  was  what  made  his  imperiousness  weigh  in  the 
minds  of  social  inferiors.  These  inferiors  could  not 
avoid  reading  and  fearing  danger  to  themselves  behind 
that  steady  assumption  of  their  obedience.  Others  also 
were  aware  of  a  menace,  and  they  gave  place  rather  un- 
comfortably to  Monty.  Some  of  them,  bidden  to  his 
parties,  came  with  reluctance;  and  revenged  themselves 
for  their  fears  by  sarcasms  uttered  at  a  safe  distance. 

So  upon  this  September  evening,  fastidiously  aware  of 
every  detail  in  the  studio,  of  every  detail  in  the  proceed- 
ings (so  far  as  these  could  be  planned  in  advance), 
Monty  stood  looking  at  his  finger-nails  or  smoking  an 
aromatic  cigarette  or  reading  carelessly  from  book  or 
paper,  waiting  for  his  guests  to  arrive.  He  was  ready 
well  in  advance  of  the  appointed  hour;  but  he  was  not 
restless  or  impatient,  but  gave  the  impression  of  being 
imperturbably  in  harmony  with  the  quiet  tickings  of  his 
handsome  clock.  Outside  in  South  Hampstead  the  whirl- 
ing wind  sank,  and  the  rain  which  had  come  earlier  in 
gusts  began  to  fall  in  a  spiteful  steady  downpour.  The 
clouds  hung  lower  and  more  threateningly  over  London. 
Everything  became  sodden  with  shivering  wet,  and  gul- 
leys  and  drains  were  full  of  singing  water.  The  rain 
hissed;  running  footsteps  were  sometimes  heard;  the 
lamps  were  streaming  with  rillets  formed  by  helter- 
skelter  raindrops. 


THE  STUDIO  15 

iv 

As  the  hour  of  eight  o'clock  approached,  Monty  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  hunter  watch  and  snapped  open  the 
case,  observing  the  motion  of  the  seconds  hand  with  a  kind 
of  absorbed  interest.     In  reality  his  brain  was  slowly 
working  and  he  was  hardly  aware  of  the  movement  under 
his  eyes.     He  was  recalling  the  preparations  which  he 
had  made  and  calculating  the  numbers  of  his  guests. 
Twenty  people  were  coming — people  of  all  sorts;  but 
mostly  people  belonging  to  that  type  to  which  an  Ameri- 
can    writer    has     given     the     name     of     troubadours. 
That  is  to  say,  few  among  them  were  what  would  be 
called  men  of  action;  for  men  of  action,  who  had  nothing 
to  say  for  themselves  or  whose  view  of  life  was  philistine, 
had  no  interest  for  Monty.     Men  of  action  were  men 
who  could  dance  and  kill  and  plan  utilitarian  works,  but 
who  could  not  think  of  anything  that  required  an  orig- 
inal  and  creative   gift.     Their   interests   were   at   best 
mechanical;  and  at  the  worst  they  had  no  vital  interests 
at  all  apart  from  the  consumption  of  time.     To  Monty, 
whose  consumption  of  time  was  lordly  and  individual- 
istic, who  could  do  nothing  without  a  clear  aim,  such 
men  were  outside  the  pale.    He  was  no  sentimentalist.    His 
mind  shrank  from  nothing.    Applied  to  men  and  women 
it  was  almost  purely  corrosive  and  therefore  destruct- 
ive; and  his  self-sufficiency  was  so  great  that  no  affection 
ever  made  him  yield  his  judgment  to  a  warmer  feeling. 
He  never  acted  upon  impulse,  never  caught  beauty  or 
inspiration  flying;  but  always   deliberately  and   mathe- 
matically laid   foundations  and   with  skill  built  up  his 
structure  with  an  eye  to  the  final  effect.     He  never  loved 
anything  or  anybody  enough  to  lose  his  head.     He  could 
always,  at  any  moment,  draw  up  and  dismiss  an  incon- 
venience or  a  line  of  conduct,  so  that  nothing  and  no- 


16  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

body  ever  had  a  claim  upon  him  that  he  could  not  repu- 
diate. He  was  a  wise  man  in  a  world  of  impulsive  fools 
running  after  their  own  tails  and  dashing  emotionally 
into  hysteria. 

Eight  o'clock  chimed  by  the  gentle  bell  of  the  clock 
which  stood  upon  a  table  in  the  far  corner  of  the  studio. 
The  strokes  pinged  and  hung  like  scent  upon  the  air. 
Monty  sat  unmoved,  fingering  his  watch,  slowly  passing 
his  thumb  backwards  and  forwards  across  the  golden 
case.  He  was  lost  in  a  reverie.  His  eyes  were  nar- 
rowed as  though  he  were  scrutinising  a  memory  and  par- 
ing it  down  to  its  essential  traits.  With  such  an  expres- 
sion his  face  lost  vitality  and  became  heavy — not  ugly 
or  sinister,  but  unpleasing.  The  coldness  of  his  nature 
was  revealed,  with  its  adjunct  of  unplanned  but  deliberate 
cruelty.  The  secret  of  Monty's  self-command  and  his 
power  to  deal  with  every  event  was  no  longer  a  secret, 
but  a  calculable  fact.  It  lay  plain  to  see  in  that  disregard 
of  others  which  marks  the  esprit  fort,  the  strong  man 
of  our  weak  ideal.  He  was  a  secret  man,  captain  of  his 
own  nature,  and  capable  through  insensibility  to  their 
conflicting  aims  of  dominating  the  actions  of  others. 

Eight  o'clock,  and  silence  in  this  gorgeous  house  upon 
the  miserable  September  night.  Monty  sat  in  luxurious 
quiet,  waiting  for  his  first  guests.  The  moments  dropped 
quietly  away  as  the  softly-ticking  clock  marked  their 
passage.  At  last  a  short  peal  sounded  at  the  door-bell. 
Monty  rose,  his  steps  noiseless  upon  the  heavy  rugs,  and 
moved  to  greet  the  early  arrivals.  He  advanced  into 
the  wide  and  tapestried  hall. 


And  then  for  half-an-hour  came  successive  rings  at 
the  bell,  and  loud-speaking  people  arrived  in  a  general 


THE  STUDIO  17 

flurry  of  raindrops  and  shiverings.  Some  of  them  had 
walked  through  the  rain,  others  had  come  in  taxicabs, 
one  or  two  in  their  own  cars.  The  hall,  with  additional 
mats  and  two  or  three  long  jars  to  hold  umbrellas,  was 
quickly  sprinkled  from  the  overcoats  and  furs  of  the 
visitors;  two  rooms  adjoining  were  made  into  cloak- 
rooms; and  then  the  studio  was  invaded.  Here  all  the 
visitors,  talking,  laughing,  cigarette-smoking,  sat  upon 
chairs  or  divans  or  cushions,  and  scattered  the  ash  from 
their  cigarettes  in  every  direction,  as  motley  and  restless 
as  the  furnishings,  and  still  by  great  fortune  harmonious. 
There  were  women  in  short  frocks,  with  bobbed  hair, 
and  women  with  long  gowns  and  long  hair  decorated 
with  combs,  one  or  two  in  evening-dress,  one  in  plain 
black;  and  men  in  all  varieties  of  costume  from  dinner- 
jackets  to  tweeds.  Above  their  heads,  towards  the 
studio's  glass  roof,  rain-bespattered,  rose  tobacco-smoke; 
from  their  lips  came  an  endless  spume  of  words,  often 
enough  in  loud  voices  which  from  the  hall  itself  made 
the  guests  sound  like  a  distant  multitude.  The  studio 
was  dwarfed  by  the  presence  of  so  many  people  and  so 
much  noise.  To  Edgar  Mayne,  who  alone  of  all  those 
invited  stood  slightly  aloof,  as  one  to  whom  the  others 
were  strangers,  it  seemed  that  never  had  he  heard  people 
with  such  loud  voices,  except  at  performances  given  by 
the  Stage  Society.  He  was  one  of  the  sober  ones — a 
man  of  nearly  forty,  undistinguished  in  appearance  and 
dressed  in  an  ordinary  lounge  suit.  His  association  with 
Monty  was  that  of  business  only,  and  he  was  here  ex- 
perimentally, quite  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  so  unsym- 
pathetic with  it  as  at  times  to  be  almost  hostile.  So  he 
stood  away  from  the  fire,  back  from  the  rest,  and  surveyed 
them  with  an  unreadable  air  of  interest.  He  received 
stares  of  appraisal  from  all;  no  greeting,  but  also  no 
coolness,  had  been  vouchsafed ;  and  he  knew  that  he  could 


18  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

without  fear  of  a  snub  have  entered  any  one  of  the  sev- 
eral deafening  conversations  which  were  in  progress  in 
his  neighbourhood.  He  preferred  to  look  on,  for  this 
society  was  to  such  a  worker  as  himself  something  so 
novel  as  to  be  nearly  incredible.  He  was  half -dazed  by 
the  noise  and  the  colour  and  the  rising  smoke.  The 
general  relation  of  the  men  and  women  baffled  him. 
The  women  had  not  ceased  to  be  women,  but  their  pro- 
fessionalism and  slanginess  made  them  exceptional  in  his 
eyes.  That  he  liked  them,  Edgar  could  not  have  said; 
but  he  was  not  yet  summing-up.  They  were  merely  differ- 
ent from  the  suburban  young  women  whom  he  met  at 
tennis  or  in  the  drawing-room.  For  one  thing,  Edgar 
had  never  yet  been  at  a  mixed  party  where  conversation 
was  regarded  as  a  sufficient  form  of  entertainment.  He 
had  never  met  women  who  talked  as  freely  as  these  did. 
So  his  eyes  wandered  from  face  to  face — from  a  man 
with  long  hair  who  spoke  in  a  rather  strained  high  voice 
to  a  sturdy  young  woman  in  a  cretonne  frock  which  ap- 
peared barely  to  reach  her  knees,  who  lolled  back  against 
the  leg  of  a  table  and  held  a  cigarette  so  dangling  from 
her  lips  that  its  smoke  straggled  up  into  her  eyes.  He 
could  hear  nothing  but  odd  words  from  all  the  conversa- 
tions; but  the  tones,  the  gestures,  and  the  glances  of  the 
talkers  were  all  new  and  puzzling  to  such  a  stranger. 
His  eyes  were  never  at  rest.  Purple,  gold,  crimson, 
scarlet,  green,  terracotta,  black;  faces  that  were  long  and 
thin,  surmounted  by  straight  fringes  of  hair,  or  round 
and  plump  and  white,  with  full  lips  and  heavy  eyes ;  a  flut- 
tering hand,  a  startling  costume — all  caught  his  gaze  and 
helped  to  bewilder  him.  The  types  were  strange,  the 
voices  and  the  assumptions;  and  Edgar  was  from  Re- 
spectability and  Commerce,  and  too  old  to  be  merely 
excited.  He  was  critical,  as  well.  He  was  especially 


THE  STUDIO  19 

critical  of  the  girls,  although  upon  the  whole  he  preferred 
the  girls  to  the  men. 

One  young  man  with  high  spirits  and  a  quick  laugh 
several  times  drew  his  attention.  He  studied  him — a 
tall,  fair  type,  very  handsome,  and  with  large  white  teeth 
which  showed  when  he  laughed.  The  young  man  was 
big  and  well-made.  He  carried  himself  with  an  ease 
that  suggested  athletics,  and  he  had  evidently  a  great 
deal  of  self-assurance.  He  was  talking  to  a  short,  and 
rather  plump,  girl  whose  black  hair,  bobbed,  and  milk- 
white  complexion  made  her  one  of  the  most  attractive  of 
them  all.  That  he  was  amusing  her  there  could  be  no 
doubt.  Her  eyes  were  raised  delightedly,  so  that  it  was 
the  young  man  who  sometimes  looked  away  and  returned 
and  occasionally  flickered  a  little  glance  at  others  in  the 
room.  Edgar's  consciousness  registered  a  definite  im- 
pression. He  liked  the  fair,  and  rather  sparkling,  young 
man  with  the  white  teeth ;  but  he  at  once  made  purely  mas- 
culine reservations.  They  might  only  be  jealousies,  for 
we  are  all  alert  to  see  the  limitations  of  others ;  but  they 
were  valid  for  Edgar.  As  he  was  engaged  in  judgment 
he  discovered  for  the  first  time  that  the  young  man, 
through  all  his  sportive  talk,  was  demonstrating  a  similarly 
observant  interest  in  himself,  and  no  doubt  docketing  com- 
plementary reservations.  A  half-smile  crept  to  Edgar's 
face.  The  left  hand,  resting  in  his  trousers  pocket,  in- 
voluntarily clenched.  His  chin  hardened.  With  his  lids 
lowered  he  looked  straight  back  at  the  boy,  and  the 
smile  vanished. 

vi 

The  studio  by  now  was  well-filled ;  and  from  Monty's 
engagement  in  the  general  hubbub  Edgar  supposed  that 
the  total  number  of  expected  guests  had  arrived  and  had 


20  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

taken  their  places  in  the  crowd.  But  he  was  wrong,  for 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  could  no  longer  hear  the  bell 
he  could  see  the  door  opening  again  to  admit  further 
newcomers.  His  attention  was  being  given  to  those 
nearest,  and  for  an  instant  he  did  not  do  more  than  glance 
towards  the  door.  Most  of  those  about  him  were  self- 
absorbed,  or  intent  upon  what  they  were  talking  about, 
which  amounted  to  the  same  thing.  The  smoke  and  the 
chatter,  in  fact,  allowed  Edgar  no  free  activity  of  the 
mind.  He  was  as  one  drowning.  It  was  only  a  sense 
that  his  young  friend  of  the  flashing  teeth  had  ceased 
talking  that  gave  Edgar  an  opportunity  for  this  instant's 
new  interest.  He  looked  up  and  towards  the  door. 
There  stood  within  the  studio  an  old  man — a  tall  old 
man  with  a  long  white  moustache  and  a  rather  bald  head, 
erect  but  markedly  obsequious  to  Monty,  dressed  in  such 
a  way  that  all  must  recognise  him  as  a  painter.  A  slight 
pucker  showed  in  Edgar's  forehead.  The  face  was  famil- 
iar, the  bearing  .  .  .  He  knew  the  man.  He  was  con- 
scious of  displeasure  at  seeing  him.  But  he  could  not 
immediately  remember  what  had  given  rise  to  this  dis- 
taste. Then,  he  looked  beyond  the  old  man,  and  his  at- 
tentiveness  quickened.  In  the  doorway  stood  a  young 
girl.  She  was  very  slight,  very  fair,  and  her  dress  was 
both  beautiful  and  striking.  Her  hair  was  worn  so  that  a 
rolled  curl  was  above  each  ear,  and  it  was  brushed  high 
from  her  neck.  Clear  blue  eyes,  a  delicate  nose,  an  im- 
petuous mouth,  a  peculiar  stillness  in  her  attitude;  and 
Edgar  could  no  longer  record  detail  in  his  general  ad- 
miration. He  was  filled  with  interest.  Not  even  the 
green  dress  which  she  wore  and  which  startled  the  eye 
could  rob  Edgar  of  the  sudden  impression  that  she  was 
somebody  alone — alone  in  the  world,  alone  in  herself, 
alone  here  this  evening.  She  was  the  first  person  who 
had  struck  him  in  all  this  party  as  belonging  to  life  as  he 


THE  STUDIO  21 

imagined  it  to  be.  There  was  a  fresh  vitality  about  the 
girl  that  he  found  in  none  of  the  others.  In  none? 

Edgar  looked  from  the  girl  to  Monty,  who  had  taken 
her  hand  and  was  smiling.  Monty,  with  his  rather 
heavy,  rather  oriental  face  and  figure,  smooth  and  im- 
possible to  be  hurt,  a  man  of  determination  and  of  per- 
sonality. Edgar  knew  very  quickly  what  Monty's  nature 
was.  He  was  not  unpractised  in  the  art  of  understand- 
ing his  fellows.  The  experience  by  which  this  skill  had 
been  gained  had  been  a  part  of  the  training  which  had 
led  to  his  business  success.  The  contrast,  then,  to  Edgar, 
between  Monty  and  the  girl  who  had  come  as  his  guest 
was  as  unmistakable  as  was  the  difference  in  their  com- 
plexions. There  was  no  likeness  here.  Edgar  would 
have  made  no  further  comment;  but  some  instinct  made 
him  look  from  Monty's  possessive  figure  to  another, 
which  stood  nearer.  It  was  that  of  the  young  man  whom 
he  had  noticed  before.  The  teeth  were  to  be  seen  at  this 
moment,  for  the  young  man  was  standing,  as  fair  and 
as  full  of  vitality  as  the  girl  herself,  with  his  lips  parted 
and  his  eyes  intent.  There  was  no  mistaking  the  sig- 
nificance of  his  attitude  and  his  tense  regard.  Edgar 
looked  again  from  the  girl  to  Monty,  as  they  stood  to- 
gether by  the  door;  and  he  saw  the  sparkle  of  the  girl's 
eyes  and  the  quick  flight  of  her  smile.  Again  he  looked 
from  Monty  to  the  young  man,  and  so  back  to  the  girl. 
And  as  he  returned  to  his  observation  of  the  young  man 
Edgar  saw  him  take  a  quick  breath,  and  saw  his  lips 
meet. 

It  was  in  this  single  instant  that  the  young  man,  urged 
no  doubt  by  an  impulse  as  incalculable  as  Edgar's,  drew 
his  eyes  from  the  girl.  He  turned  sharply  and  looked 
at  Edgar.  Their  glances  crossed.  Both  smiled. 


CHAPTER  TWO:  NEW  FRIENDS 


HARRY  GREENLEES,  the  young  man  with  the 
flashing  teeth,  had  been  given  his  Rugby  blue  ten 
or  eleven  years  before,  and  had  helped  Oxford  to  beat 
Cambridge  in  a  memorable  year.  Since  leaving  the  Uni- 
versity he  had  played  for  two  seasons  with  the  Harle- 
quins ;  but  his  footballing  days  were  over  now  as  he  could 
no  longer  endure  the  strain  of  ninety-minutes'  incessant 
conflict.  During  the  rather  aimless  experiments  which 
followed  in  the  art  of  earning  a  living  without  exertion, 
Harry  had  revived  an  undergraduate  habit  of  writing 
sporting  descriptive  articles,  and  to  fellow-journalists 
his  competence  for  this  work  was  known.  It  was  not, 
however,  celebrated  among  his  friends  or  the  general 
public,  and  as  he  had  fallen  in  quite  by  accident  with  a 
semi-literary  and  artistic  set,  the  members  of  which  took 
him  for  granted  as  a  cheerful  companion  with  enough 
money  to  live  on,  Harry  enjoyed  a  most  agreeable  sort 
of  life.  His  work  was  slangy  and  vigorous,  and  if  it 
did  not  produce  an  income  upon  which  a  man  of  his  type 
could  exist,  it  made  sufficient  the  small  private  means 
which  were  already  at  Harry's  command.  He  was  able 
to  support  himself  in  comfort  and  to  go  about  the  world 
very  much  at  his  ease. 

Abroad,  Harry  walked,  with  a  knapsack  on  his  shoul- 
ders, and  saw  the  countries  of  Europe  from  the  road. 
It  was  for  papers  chiefly  concerned  with  out-of-door  life 
and  sport  that  he  worked,  and  accordingly  he  found 
material  ready  for  his  eye  and  his  fountain-pen  wherever 

22 


NEW  FRIENDS  23 

he  turned  for  diversion.  His  was  a  life  of  varied  pleas- 
ure, and  for  as  long  as  he  remained  fit  he  would  find  it 
inexhaustible  in  possibilities.  He  was  a  lively  compan- 
ion and  a  good  sort.  He  was  full  of  zest,  making 
friends  lightly  and  as  lightly  letting  them  go.  Every- 
body felt  his  honesty  and  his  energy,  and  he  had  neither 
the  mannerisms  of  the  unduly  famous  nor  the  menacing 
air  of  those  who  are  intellectually  better  than  their  com- 
pany. He  was  happy,  impulsive,  handsome,  agreeable, 
and  charming.  It  needed  an  Edgar  Mayne  to  detect  his 
faults,  and  Harry  was  too  unsuspecting  and  satisfied  to 
suppose  that  others  were  more  subtle  than  himself. 

He  had  been  talking  to  Rhoda  Flower,  the  dark  girl 
with  the  milk-white  face,  when  he  first  observed  Edgar. 
And  Edgar  had  been  so  little  remarkable  in  appearance 
that  this  was  the  first  fact  about  him  which  Harry  had 
noticed.  Harry,  however,  had  found  himself  looking 
back  at  Edgar,  unable  to  account  for  the  interest  he  felt 
in  the  unknown.  Rhoda,  whom  he  had  asked,  knew  no 
more  about  the  man  than  he  did,  and  had  been  indiffer- 
ent; but  Harry  was  definitely  curious.  If  Edgar  had 
been  nearer  he  would  have  found  himself  directly  ad- 
dressed; but  as  it  was  the  exchanged  glance  already 
mentioned  was  the  only  communication  to  pass  between 
the  two  men.  The  glance  had  originated  in  a  most  sin- 
gular impression  which  formed  in  Harry's  mind. 

When  Monty  had  moved  forward  to  great  old  Dal- 
rymple,  who  was  some  sort  of  artist,  Harry  had  felt  his 
usual  dislike  of  the  man,  based  upon  the  feeling  that 
Dalrymple  carried  with  him  an  air  of  stale  drink  and 
unsuccess.  But  he  had  looked  past  the  old  man  to  the 
unknown  girl  who  seemed  to  be  his  companion;  and  in- 
stantly there  shot  through  him  that  strong  sexual  interest 
which  Harry  was  in  the  habit  of  calling  "love."  He  was 
a  strong  young  man,  very  sufficiently  sensual,  and  his 


24  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

notions  of  love  were  made  accordingly.  It  was  a  quick 
impulse,  and  his  first  thought  after  receiving  it  and  de- 
ciding that  he  must  know  the  stranger  was  the  realisation 
that  what  he  had  desired  Monty  also  would  desire.  And 
then,  ignoring  all  the  others  present,  he  had  sharply 
sensed  danger.  The  glance  at  Edgar  had  been  quite 
three-quarters  of  a  challenge.  The  flashing  teeth  had 
been  bared,  and  the  blue  eyes  had  been  hard.  But  there 
was  something  about  Edgar  which  disarmed  him.  Hence 
the  smile. 

This  was  not  the  first  time  Harry  had  been  in  love. 
He  was  attractive,  and  he  was  quickly  attracted.  He 
had  self-assurance,  and  he  knew  how  to  give  pleasure. 
To  Rhoda  Flower  he  was  certainly  the  most  attractive 
person  in  the  world.  It  was  to  her  that  he  continued 
quietly  to  talk  while  the  stranger  was  being  brought  for- 
ward to  the  group  round  the  fireplace.  He  was  teasing 
Rhoda,  and  gave  no  further  sign  of  interest  in  the  other 
girl;  but  he  knew  when  she  was  near.  He  turned  his 
head  and  looked  at  her.  He  looked  from  near  at  hand 
at  the  soft,  beautifully  moulded  cheeks  and  the  impetu- 
ous mouth  and  the  clear  blue  eyes ;  and  a  very  faint  ad- 
ditional colour  came  into  his  face.  Not  knowing  that 
Edgar  was  watching  him,  he  was  perfectly  aware  of  the 
girl's  grace  and  beauty.  The  curve  of  her  neck  and 
breast  and  shoulder  seemed  always  to  have  been  known 
and  entrancing  to  him.  With  Harry  it  was  love  at  first 
sight. 

".  .  .  Greenlees — Miss  Quin,"  said  Monty,  leading  the 
stranger  from  one  to  the  other  of  his  older  friends,  and 
making  her  acquainted  with  them  all. 

The  smoke-filled  atmosphere  seemed  to  come  down 
like  a  cloud  against  which  she  stood  fresh  and  lovely. 
All  the  vehemences  of  colour  about  him  were  softened. 
For  that  instant  Harry  saw  nothing  but  the  stranger, 


NEW  FRIENDS  25 

felt  nothing  but  her  hand.  He  found  Miss  Quin  ador- 
able. She  was  a  reality,  a  sweet  and  wayward  reality, 
like  a  flash  of  scarlet;  and  his  one  desire  was  to  feel  her 
soft  hair  against  his  cheek,  her  cool  shoulder,  her  sur- 
rendered lips.  The  imagination  of  these  contacts  was 
intense.  Into  Harry's  expression  of  light  spirits  crept 
something  ever  so  slightly  heavier.  He  was  serious. 
To  him  the  senses  were  a  cause  of  seriousness,  a  cause 
of  the  complete  oblivion  of  all  that  was  comic  or  whim- 
sical. 

From  behind  him  came  the  voice  of  the  young  artist, 
Amy  Roberts. 

"Hullo,  Patricia,"  she  said  in  greeting. 

Patricia!  Patricia  Quin.  So  that  was  the  stranger's 
name.  Harry's  faint  flush  subsided.  He  cooled.  The 
vision  had  passed.  The  quick  physical  imagining  was  for 
the  present  gone,  no  longer  an  eager  craving.  He  must 
talk  to  her,  see  her,  be  with  her;  but  in  a  few  minutes, 
quite  easily  and  simply.  What  lay  in  the  future  was 
something  which  stretched  much  farther  than  his  imme- 
diate vision.  To  Harry  it  beckoned  as  irresistible  ad- 
venture. 

ii 

The  party  swayed  and  engulfed  Patricia.  She  was 
among  all  the  others,  and  talking  or  listening,  extraor- 
dinarily delighted  with  all  this  sound  and  colour.  To 
her,  whose  first  party  of  the  kind  it  was,  such  a  brim- 
ming claim  to  the  senses  had  no  shortcomings.  It  was  all 
new  and  glorious  and  intoxicating.  She  felt  herself  a 
queen.  Wherever  she  looked  she  found  the  strong 
colour  and  sensation  for  which  she  had  pined.  It  was  the 
first  party,  and  a  landmark.  Compared  with  her  days 
and  the  unattractive  dinginess  of  her  own  rooms,  Monty's 
home  was  all  that  was  rich  and  desirable.  At  two-and- 


26  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

twenty,  when  one  is  starving  for  colour,  a  glut  of  it  is 
like  a  feast.  She  was  so  happy,  like  a  child  at  its  first 
theatre,  that  she  sat  there  spell-bound.  It  could  not  have 
occurred  to  her  to  think  these  people  sophisticated;  they 
were  all  so  kind,  she  thought  to  herself,  so  kind  and  gen- 
erous and  interesting.  Her  heart  went  out  to  them  all. 
It  was  as  though  she  cast  her  own  warm  affection- 
ateness  upon  the  party.  Her  radiance  increased  with 
each  instant.  The  corners  of  her  mouth  went  up;  her 
sweet,  child-like  laugh  melted  into  the  general  laughter. 
All  this  light  and  colour  and  sound  was  superb.  It  was 
vivacity  and  richness,  music  and  poetry,  an  unequalled 
stimulant  to  gaiety  and  the  senses.  It  was  life  as  she 
had  dreamt  of  it.  There  was  a  spice  of  daring  in  such 
contact  with  the  unknown  and  the  exciting,  and  daring 
was  her  ideal.  It  was  lovely.  .  .  .  She  was  in  a  beauti- 
ful dream  of  delight. 

Even  Patricia  at  last  began  to  look,  beaming  in  her 
happiness,  from  one  face  to  the  other.  They  were  all 
faces  that  interested  her.  They  all  had  a  cast — not  of 
dignity  or  wisdom,  but  of  something  which  she  thought 
of  as  enlightenment.  There  was  a  quality  about  them 
to  which  she  was  unaccustomed,  and  she  exalted  it. 
She  was  prepared  to  find  all  knowledge  and  emotion  in 
the  faces,  and  she  found  it.  The  tones  of  the  voices 
charmed  her;  the  little  jokes  which  she  did  not  under- 
stand, and  the  fragments  of  criticism  which  belonged  to 
another  world  of  interests  and  consciousness,  were  all  a 
part  of  the  magic  and  delight  of  the  evening.  She  set 
herself  to  look  round  the  studio,  sitting  close  to  Amy 
Roberts,  as  a  child  might  have  done,  while  Amy,  to  whom 
all  this  sort  of  thing  was  becoming  almost  as  common- 
place as  she  pretended  to  Patricia  that  it  already  was, 
preserved  an  air  of  most  distinguished  semi-boredom. 
Amy,  herself  an  artist,  told  her  the  names  of  those  pres- 


NEW  FRIENDS  27 

ent,  and  sometimes,  if  she  knew  it,  something  about  the 
people.  Patricia  from  time  to  time  glanced  aside  at  Amy's 
fair  bobbed  hair  and  her  white  face  and  light  lashes 
and  eyebrows  and  dissatisfied  mouth;  and  thought  how 
nice  Amy  was,  and  how  clever,  and  how  she  wished  Amy 
had  a  sense  of  humour  of  the  same  kind  as  her  own. 

"That's  Rhoda  Flower — that  dark  girl.  She's  a  dress- 
designer.  Not  much  good,  as  you  can  see  from  her 
dress.  And  those  two  over  on  the  right,  who're  so  fond 
of  each  other  and  think  each  other  perfect  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  They're  engaged,"  guessed  Patricia,  laugh- 
ing. 

"More  than  that.  They're  married.  And  happy. 
The  only  married  people  I  know  who  are  happy.  And 
how  it  is  that  Olivia  has  brought  herself  to  leave  the 
babies  this  evening  I  can't  understand.  They  must  have 
got  a  nurse.  So  I  suppose  Peter's  been  making  some 
money,  for  a  change.  Olivia  and  Peter  Stephens,  they 
are.  They've  been  married  three  years,  and  they've  got 
two  babies.  They're  still  devoted  to  each  other." 

"Odd !"  joked  Patricia,  with  archly  raised  brows.  She 
had  no  notion  of  the  truth  of  her  comment  in  the  present 
company,  or  of  the  underlying  cynicism  which  an  un- 
friendly hearer  might  read  into  it.  Amy  looked  side- 
ways at  her  friend.  She  was  puzzled,  as  the  sophisticated 
always  are  puzzled  by  a  remark  made  with  nonsensical 
humour  and  without  consciousness  of  its  implications. 

"It  is,"  she  agreed  drily.  "Then  there's  somebody 
who  isn't  devoted  to  her  husband — Blanche  Tallentyre. 
And  with  good  reason.  That  white  woman  with  the 
salmon  lips." 

"Is  she  unhappy?"  Patricia's  face  clouded.  She 
imagined  a  tragedy,  and  she  still  passionately  desired 
happy  endings  to  all  stories.  She  scanned  Mrs.  Tallen- 
tyre's  face,  and  saw  the  hard  lines  at  the  lips,  and  the 


28  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

thin  cheeks,  and  how  tight  her  skin  was  across  the  cheek 
bones;  and  her  heart  felt  soft  towards  one  to  whom  love 
had  been  cruel.  Now  that  she  knew  this  of  Blanche 
Tallentyre  she  could  notice  the  hunger  in  Blanche's  face, 
and  the  thinness  of  her  bare  arms,  and  the  cup  at  the 
base  of  her  throat.  She  could  imagine  sleepless,  tearless 
sorrow.  So  there  was  one  at  least  here  who,  in  spite  of 
all  the  thrill  of  it,  was  unhappy. 

"Not  too  unhappy,"  said  Amy.  "Hush.  I'll  tell  you 
later.  Not  now." 

They  paused,  Patricia  looking  childishly  wise  in  an 
effort  to  disguise  her  faint  distaste  for  this  hint  at  an 
only  dimly-realised  form  of  ugliness;  and  both  stared 
valiantly  round  at  the  others,  so  mysterious  to  Patricia, 
and  so  fascinating  in  their  mysteriousness. 

"Jack  Penton's  here,"  proceeded  Amy.  "Somewhere. 
Of  course,  not  when  he's  .  .  .  Oh,  there  you  are,  Jack. 
You  know  Patricia,  don't  you?  Who's  that  man  at  the 
back?  Behind  Charlotte  Hastings.  That  quiet  man." 
Patricia  looked  quickly  at  Jack  Penton,  whom  she  had 
met  before.  He  was  a  dark,  clean-shaven,  common- 
place-looking young  man  with  a  rasping  voice ;  but  he  was 
a  good  dancer,  and  she  thought  him,  if  not  clever,  at 
least  intelligent  and  worthy  of  some  other  girl's  love. 
There  was  cameraderie,  but  no  love,  in  Amy's  manner 
to  the  boy ;  and  something  very  similar,  upon  the  surface, 
in  his  manner  to  Amy;  but  to  Patricia  it  was  agreeable 
to  see  their  faces  near  together.  But  then  Patricia  was 
a  sentimentalist,  and  saw  and  imagined  all  sorts  of  things 
that  never  existed. 

Jack  wrinkled  his  brow  in  the  effort  to  recall  a  name 
half-forgotten. 

"Er — I  think  his  name's  Rayne,  or  Mayne,"  he  huskily 
reported.  "That's  it :  Edgar  Mayne.  He's  something 
in  the  city.  Rather  an  old  bird,  don't  you  think?  He's 


NEW  FRIENDS  29 

a  friend  of  Monty's.  Somebody  told  me  he  was  clever, 
but  you  never  know  with  that  sort  of  chap." 

"He  looks  very  nice,"  whispered  Patricia.  "But 
rather  stern.  I  don't  think  he  likes  this  kind  of  thing. 
He  looks  disapproving.  Oh,  I  wish  he  liked  it." 

Again  came  that  incredulous  stare  from  Amy  which 
convicted  Patricia  of  a  naivete.  Patricia  stiffened  a  little, 
and  became  more  guarded.  Some  vanity  in  her  cried 
out  against  criticism.  It  was  the  one  thing  she  could 
not  bear. 

"Just  there,  on  the  right,  is  Felix  Brow,"  proceeded 
Amy. 

"Not  .  .  ."  Patricia  began  in  amazement. 

Suddenly,  as  they  sat  thus  absorbed,  there  came  an 
interruption. 

"Can't  I  help?"  breathed  an  eager  voice.  "I  can  tell 
you  all  sorts  of  things  you  don't  know — about  everybody. 
Who  they  married,  and  why  they  separated,  and  who 
they're  living  with.  I'm  really  an  expert  guide." 

They  all  looked  up,  and  saw  Harry  Greenlees,  whose 
face  was  so  lowered  to  Patricia's  that  it  was  almost  level 
with  her  own.  It  was  so  close,  too,  that  she  could  see  the 
warm  colour  under  his  skin,  and  the  crisp  hairs  of  his 
moustache,  and  the  curl  of  his  lips  as  they  parted  in  a 
smile  of  entreaty.  Seen  near  at  hand,  Harry's  face  had 
all  the  additional  attractiveness  which  health  gives  to 
good  features.  His  vigour  was  manifest.  There  was  a 
pleading  in  his  eyes  that  was  almost  irresistible.  It  was 
the  pleading  of  an  ideally  masterful  lover  who  would  not 
understand  a  refusal  and  so  would  not  accept  it.  Patri- 
cia looked,  and  held  back  her  own  head  until  the  curve 
of  her  cheek  was  lengthened  and  made  even  more  beau- 
tiful than  before.  She  was  smiling,  and  when  she  smiled 
one  beheld  such  a  picture  of  happiness  that  one  became 


30  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

quite  naturally  intrigued  and  marvelling.  To  Harry  the 
picture  was  an  intoxication. 

"You  may  tell  me  everything,"  said  Patricia,  with 
assurance  equal  to  his  own.  "But  first  of  all  tell  me 
who  you  are." 

He  took  a  seat  upon  the  floor  by  her  side,  clasping  his 
knees,  and  fixing  his  attention  upon  the  two  plump  little 
hands  which  were  clasped  in  Patricia's  lap. 

"I  am  the  most  marvellous  and  unfortunate  of  men," 
he  said.  "Unfortunate,  at  least,  until  this  very  minute. 
My  name  is  Harry  Greenlees.  .  .  ." 

iii 

To  Patricia  it  was  all  as  delicious  as  a  fairy  tale.  She 
was  not  unused  to  admiration,  for  her  beauty  was  of  the 
kind  to  draw  men;  but  the  admiration  of  the  men  she 
had  known  had  been  too  easily  won  to  possess  any  last- 
ing value.  She  had  become  regal  and  fastidious,  accept- 
ing homage  even  while  she  despised  those  by  whom  it 
was  offered.  And  who  were  these  men,  after  all  ?  They 
were  men  she  had  met  at  local  dances,  or  in  the  office 
in  which  she  had  not  very  competently  or  devotedly 
worked.  A  few  she  had  met  at  the  homes  of  acquaint- 
ances, a  few  at  the  seaside  hotels  at  which  she  and  her 
uncle  had  stayed  from  summer  holiday  to  summer  holi- 
day. They  had  been  clerks  or  young  school-masters  or 
inferior  stragglers  in  one  or  other  of  the  professions. 
All,  apart  from  the  admiration  they  offered  and  the  fact 
that  they  were  more  or  less  organically  sound  males,  had 
failed  to  interest  a  lively  intelligence  and  an  impatient 
spirit.  But  now  that  her  uncle,  like  her  father  and 
mother,  was  dead;  and  now  that,  having  lost  her  situa- 
tion and  determined  upon  a  Career  for  Herself,  Patricia 
was  in  new  lodgings  and  facing  life  upon  a  new  footing, 


NEW  FRIENDS  31 

the  case  was  altered.  Old  Dalrymple,  whom  she  had  met 
several  times,  and  who  had  pleased  her  with  his  rather 
stale  compliments  and  the  still-unpricked  bubble  of  his 
exaggerated  tales  of  acquaintance  with  the  great,  had 
brought  her  to  Monty's.  He  had  been  proud  to  do  it. 
Partly  he  had  an  old  man's  rather  morbid  sentimental 
feeling  towards  her,  which  played  with  the  pretence  that 
it  was  paternal;  and  partly  he  had  the  knowledge  that 
Patricia  was  a  creditable  companion.  So  he  had  brought 
her  here  on  this  occasion,  and  Patricia,  revelling  in  the 
newness  of  her  delight,  had  forgotten  him.  She  was 
already  in  a  hitherto-untasted  heaven.  And  this  ardent 
young  man  at  her  feet,  who  shone  with  admiration  so 
confident  and  encroaching  as  almost  to  excite  her,  was  a 
new  type  to  Patricia.  She  had  always  been  so  much 
quicker-witted  than  her  followers  that  she  had  discour- 
aged them  in  turn.  She  was  still  engaged  in  battling  with 
Harry's  wit,  and  thinking  it  exceedingly  nimble  and  dar- 
ing and  charming.  She  was  more  and  more  charmed 
each  minute,  partly  with  Harry,  partly  with  herself  for 
so  charming  him. 

He  told  her  about  all  the  different  men  and  women 
who  were  before  her,  what  they  did  in  order  to  live,  and 
why  they  were  present ;  and  as  she  skipped  quickly  with 
her  eyes  and  brain  from  one  to  the  other  he  made  up  a 
great  deal  of  nonsense  about  their  private  lives  which 
diverted  Patricia  extraordinarily,  while  Amy  listened 
with  disapproval  to  the  whole  catalogue. 

"Stuff!"  she  at  last  interrupted.  "There's  not  a  word 
of  truth  in  it,  Patricia." 

"I  know!"  bubbled  Patricia.  "Don't  you  see,  that's 
what's  so  nice !"  Her  whole  face  was  alight  as  she  spoke. 
Amy's  objection  seemed  to  Patricia  to  show  her  so  very 
pedestrian  in  standard  and  judgment. 

"Patricia  understands  me,"  said  Harry,  unchecked  in 


32  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

his  use  of  her  Christian  name.  "She's  the  first  person 
to  understand  me.  Do  you  know,  I've  been  looking  all 
over  the  world  for  you — for  thirty  weary  years."  He 
beamed  whimsically,  handsomer  in  Patricia's  eyes  each 
instant. 

"I  wonder  how  many  times  you've  said  that,"  snapped 
Amy,  who  was  impervious. 

"A  million  times,  and  never  meant  it  until  now." 
Harry's  smile  showed  his  big  white  teeth,  and  long 
lashes  shaded  his  eyes;  and  his  big  frame  was  so  firm 
and  manifest  that  Patricia,  in  laughing  as  she  did  with 
an  exultancy  that  almost  held  tears,  was  full  also  of  hap- 
piness in  the  enjoyment  of  his  manly  graces. 

"I  understand  everything,"  she  announced,  confid- 
ingly; and  mystically  believed  it. 

"Yes,  but  he  doesn't  think  so,"  warned  Amy,  in  grave 
alarm.  "Or  he  wouldn't  be  telling  lies  at  such  a  rate. 
It  isn't  true  that  Dolly  Fletcher's  the  daughter  of  a  Rus- 
sian prince  and  a  charwoman." 

"Oh,  but  wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  she  was!"  cried  Pa- 
tricia. 

"Exactly,"  agreed  Harry,  and  proceeded  to  embroider 
his  legend.  "You  see  the  short  nose  of  the  Russian  of 
high  caste,  and  hear  the  accent  of  the  London  back  street. 
Notice  the  powder,  the  scent,  the  gold  chain;  the  fur 
edging  to  her  frock.  You  can  imaginfc  snow  on  her 
shoes  and  a  pail  in  her  hand.  You  can  imagine  waves  of 
dirty  water  slopping  just  under  the  edge  of  the  bed,  and 
silk  underclothing,  and  cosmetics,  and  a  bath  on  the  first 
Sunday  of  the  Month — as  a  rarefied  sensual  indulgence." 

"She  does  look  dirty,"  admitted  Amy,  scrutinizing 
Dolly.  "It's  her  skin.  But  she's  a  very  decent  sort." 

This  was  said  defiantly,  while  Patricia  wondered. 
How  strange !  It  was  the  first  flaw  that  she  had  found  in 
her  handsome  new  friend,  and  it  was  unwelcome.  She 


NEW  FRIENDS  33 

wished  he  had  not  spoken  in  that  way.     It  troubled  her. 

"Tell  us  what  you  know  about  Mr.  Mayne,"  said  Pat- 
ricia, to  change  this  topic  and  to  conceal  her  distress. 
It  continued  for  a  moment  or  two,  nevertheless,  as  an 
undercurrent  to  her  thoughts,  and  was  still  unpleasant. 
Personal  uncleanliness  was  abhorrent  to  her;  but  the  jok- 
ing suggestion  of  it  was  equally  abhorrent.  It  was  an 
ugliness. 

"Mayne?  Who's  he?  Oh,  is  that  Mayne?  Really!" 
Harry  seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  lost  in  thought. 
"How  astonishing.  Edgar  Mayne.  I  didn't  know  who 
it  was.  Well,  Mayne's  a  peculiar  fellow,  as  I  don't  mind 
telling  you." 

"Is  he  married?"  demanded  Amy  impatiently.  "If 
you  don't  know  anything  about  him,  say  so.  Don't 
make  it  up.  If  you  play  any  tricks  on  us  about  the  man 
I  shall  go  across  and  ask  him  myself." 

"No,  this  is  true,"  said  Harry,  reflectively.  As  he 
spoke  he  looked  again  at  Edgar,  who  was  talking  to 
Rhoda  Flower  and  listening  calmly  to  her  chatter.  "He's 
a  man  who  started  as  a  bootblack  or  something.  .  .  ." 

"Lie  number  one,"  commented  Amy.     "Take  care!" 

"Well,  an  office  boy.  And  he  got  to  be  a  ledger  clerk. 
And  he  became  an  accountant.  And  then  manager. 
And  then  partner.  No,  Amy,  he's  not  married,  as  far  as 
I  know.  And  instead  of  marrying  he's  stuck  to  work 
and  he's  just  bought  a  newspaper  of  some  sort.  So  I 
suppose  he's  presently  going  into  Parliament,  and  intends 
to  be  in  the  Cabinet  in  five  years.  He'll  attack  the  Gov- 
ernment in  his  paper  until  he's  offered  a  job;  and  then 
they'll  give  him  an  Under-Secretaryship.  Then  he'll 
push  out  the  old  chap  above  him,  and  become  a  Minister. 
And  there  you  are." 

"Very  nice.  He's  rich,  then  ?"  Amy  was  as  sharp  and 
persistent  as  the  claws  of  a  playing  kitten. 


34  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"I  s'pose  so.  I  don't  know.  He's  the  industrious 
apprentice." 

Unperceived  by  his  hearers,  Harry  was  sneering  a  little, 
as  one  always  does  at  industriousness,  with  the  suggestion 
that  it  is  a  common  vice,  whereas  it  is  a  chimera. 

"What's  the  paper  he's  bought?"  asked  Jack  Penton. 
"If  it's  a  daily  he'll  burn  his  fingers.  I  thought  he  was 
in  the  City." 

"I  don't  know  what  the  paper  is."  Harry's  motion 
towards  Jack,  however  graceful  and  even  consciously 
charming,  showed  that  he  was  busy  with  his  more  honest 
thoughts.  They  became  vocal,  and  his  voice,  hitherto  so 
ingratiatingly  warm,  had  lost  all  quality.  It  was  merely 
cautious  and  speculative.  "I  wonder  if  he'd  give  me  the 
job  of  Sports  Editor  on  it,"  Harry  said. 

"Take  it,"  jeered  Amy.  "Take  it.  That's  the  sort  of 
thing  you  do,  isn't  it  ?" 

Harry  smiled  again,  altogether  recovered,  and  once 
again  the  teasing  comrade  he  had  been.  It  was  a  most 
welcome  return. 

"I  will,"  he  assured  them.  "You  may  regard  it  as 
taken.  I'll  just  tell  Mayne  about  it  before  he  goes." 

Patricia  listened  still,  the  colour  deeper  in  her  cheeks 
as  the  result  of  so  much  excitement  and  new  knowledge. 
She  was  quite  fascinated  by  Harry,  as  she  was  fascinated 
by  this  whole  unfamiliar  scene.  She  could  hardly  keep 
still,  so  delighted  was  she  to  be  in  this  realm  of  men  and 
women  who  "did"  things,  whose  names  and  qualities  and 
actions  were  known  and  public.  Such  gossip  as  she  had 
heard  was  quite  new  to  her.  Such  assurance  as  Harry 
had  shown  in  sketching  the  possible  future  of  Mr.  Mayne 
argued  an  inside  knowledge  of  the  world  of  politics  and 
affairs  and  finance  and  wide-reaching  action  involving 
the  fortunes  of  other  people  which  no  man  whom  she 
had  hitherto  known  had  possessed  or  pretended  to  pos- 


NEW  FRIENDS  35 

aess.  A  gentle  glance  of  encouragement,  almost  shy,  but 
wholly  attractive,  passed  between  Patricia  and  Harry. 
Upon  his  side  it  was  prolonged.  He  gave  a  little  laugh. 

"Oh,  it's  a  great  life!"  he  ejaculated,  as  though  he  had 
known  her  thoughts. 

How  Patricia  agreed  with  him! 

"It's  a  great  life!"  she  emphatically  repeated,  kindled 
to  enthusiasm  at  having  her  vaguer  thoughts  crystallised. 
And  she  felt  how  she  and  Harry  appreciated  it  in  com- 
mon as  a  great  life,  and  was  again  pleased  and  excited,  so 
that  she  wanted  to  clap  her  hands  with  joy.  The  little 
group  of  four,  of  which  Patricia  and  Harry  were  the 
centre,  was  observed  by  all;  and  if  Patricia  was  in  any 
degree  aware  of  this  the  knowledge  can  only  have  added 
to  her  conviction  of  the  general  splendid  entertainingness 
of  life.  She  was  quite  carried  out  of  herself  and  into  the 
spirit  of  the  hour. 

iv 

By  this  time  the  first  half  of  the  evening  was  coming 
to  an  end.  Monty,  who  had  talked  to  all  his  guests,  had 
observed  that  it  was  ten  o'clock;  and  it  was  now  that  a 
screen  at  one  end  of  the  studio  was  removed,  allowing 
the  buffet  for  the  first  time  to  reveal  its  attractions.  The 
visitors  spread — all  except  our  party  of  four; — and  the 
most  remarkable  collection  of  drinks  and  foodstuffs  was 
being  relished  by  all.  For  some  moments  Patricia  and  her 
friends  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  forward ;  but 
at  last  Harry  and  Jack  rose  abruptly  from  their  places  to 
secure  refreshment  for  their  charmers.  No  sooner  had 
they  joined  the  group  at  the  buffet  than  Monty  and 
Edgar  approached  the  two  girls,  the  former  bearing  a 
tray  upon  which  were  glasses  large  and  small,  and  the 
latter  a  couple  of  piled  plates.  It  was  Monty's  habit  to 
make  his  guests  serve  themselves,  and  he  had  only  re- 


36  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

laxed  his  rule  because  he  was  interested  in  Patricia  and 
her  youthful  delight.  Upon  his  heels  as  he  thus  ap- 
proached hung  Dalrymple,  who  saw  an  opportunity  of 
reclaiming  his  charge.  Patricia  had  forgotten  Dalrymple 
— characteristically, — although  but  for  him  she  would 
never  have  known  the  joys  of  the  evening  at  all. 

She  was  charmed  at  being  thus  waited  upon,  and  ac- 
cepted champagne  cup  and  some  of  Edgar's  more  nour- 
ishing products  with  the  most  urbane  pleasure.  To  Ed- 
gar, who  came  second  in  the  procession,  she  was  espe- 
cially friendly,  for  she  had  been  absorbed  by  Harry's 
tale  of  his  history.  She  had  time  only  to  thank  him  and 
to  catch  his  grave  smile,  and  then  Dalrymple,  rather  offi- 
ciously, brought  himself  to  her  notice. 

"Is  Patricia  having  a  good  time?"  the  old  man  asked, 
with  his  smirking  air  of  hints  and  mystery.  "That's 
right.  That's  right.  Is  there  room  here  for  an  old 
man?" 

Amy  looked  at  him  with  aversion  as  he  squeezed  into 
/  their  seat  beside  Patricia,  and  her  expression  was  sus- 
picious and  scornful.  But  Patricia  had  no  criticism.  It 
was  nothing  to  her  that  his  eyes  were  protruding  and 
gooseberry-like,  and  the  fringe  of  his  moustache  above 
the  mouth  browned  with  the  stains  of  food  and  much 
drink.  She  was  in  a  mood  to  welcome  all  who  con- 
tributed to  this  party.  She  felt  in  a  curious  psychic  way 
that  it  was  peculiarly  her  party;  and  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place  would  have  led  her,  in  any  case,  to  frank  friendli- 
ness with  all  comers.  She  was  transported,  and  hardly 
conscious  of  her  own  actions.  The  barbaric  colours 
seemed  to  have  mingled  into  a  glorious  harmony,  and  she 
was  as  much  intoxicated  by  these  colours  and  the  sounds 
and  associations  of  the  evening  as  she  could  have  been 
made  by  deep  potations.  The  glass  in  her  hand  was 
only  half-empty;  but  she  was  drunk  with  happiness,  her 


NEW  FRIENDS  37 

cheeks  flushed,  her  eyes  brimming  with  laughter,  her 
lips  parted  in  eager  sportiveness.  Danger  she  could  not 
foresee.  She  lived  in  the  moment,  and  knew  that  for  her 
it  was  good.  She  was  unaware  of  Dalrymple's  singular 
glance,  with  its  old  man's  ugliness  and  preoccupation. 
She  could  not  read  the  expression  upon  Monty's  face 
when  he  looked  at  her  over  the  glass-laden  tray.  She 
knew  nothing  of  Amy's  grave  distrust  and  even  suspi- 
cion. She  only  felt  that  she  had  never  been  so  happy. 

Upon  an  impulse  she  thrust  her  glass  into  Dalrymple's 
hand,  and  rose  and  went  straight  to  Edgar.  It  was  ex- 
traordinary that  she  should  feel  no  embarrassment;  but 
Patricia  did  not  reflect.  She  was  acting  upon  impulse, 
and  she  exalted  impulse,  as  modern  young  women  are 
in  the  habit  of  doing.  Moreover,  all  who  knew  Edgar 
trusted  him. 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  .  .  ."  began  Patricia,  and  then 
faltered.  Edgar's  face  was  blurred  to  her  vision  by 
the  tears  that  suddenly  filled  her  eyes.  She  blinked 
them  away,  and  took  new  courage  from  his  expres- 
sion. This  man,  so  different  from  the  others  there,  was 
one  of  those,  she  felt,  who  could  always  be  reached  by 
the  truth.  He  was  so  controlled,  so  grave,  that  he  might 
have  terrified  her  in  other  circumstances;  but  in  this 
mood  of  exaltation  Patricia  was  carried  beyond  fear. 
"I  wanted  to  ask  you  ..."  she  stammered  again.  "They 
say  .  .  .  Mr.  Greenlees  says  you've  just  bought  a  news- 
paper. .  .  .  And  will  you  please  make  him  Sports  Edi- 
tor! I  don't  think  he  means  really  to  ask  you;  but  he 
said  he  would;  and  I  think  he  wants  to  be.  ...  If  only 

you  could,  it  would  be  so  awfully  nice He's 

really  .  .  ." 

And  then  Patricia  faltered.  She  was  at  the  end  of 
her  knowledge.  Her  cheeks  flushed.  For  the  first  time 
she  was  conscious  of  grave  discomfort.  She  would  have 


38  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

cancelled  all  she  had  said  if  it  had  been  possible;  but  it 
was  too  late,  and  her  trembling  smile  of  anxiety  was  the 
most  beautiful  thing  Edgar  had  seen  for  many  days. 
Nevertheless,  he  shook  his  head. 

"Such  an  advocate  would  secure  a  man  any  positioji," 
he  said.  "But  only  if  it  were  available.  It  is  quite  true 
that  I've  bought  a  paper;  but  what  a  paper!  Miss  Quin 
— I  hardly  like  to  tell  you  what  paper  it  is.  I  have  only 
bought  it  because  the  Editor  is  a  man  I  love  and  admire, 
and  because  the  paper  would  otherwise  die.  It  is  called 
'The  Antiquarian's  Gazette/  You  see,  we  could  only 
have  some  very  antique  sports  in  such  a  paper." 

"Couldn't  you  .  .  .  couldn't  you  .  .  .  bring  it  up-to- 
date  ?"  begged  Patricia, 

Edgar  shook  his  head  with  so  concerned  an  expression 
that  she  could  hardly  detect  his  lurking  smile. 

"I'm  afraid  .  .  ."  he  said. 

"No."  Patricia  was  rueful.  "No,  I  see  it  wouldn't 
do.  I'm  sorry,  though."  Her  thoughts  ran  on  apace. 
"Did  you  mean,"  she  asked  suddenly,  "that  the 
editor  would  have  ...  he  wouldn't  have  had  anything 
to  live  on?" 

"Well,  he's  a  very  proud  old  gentleman,"  admitted 
Edgar. 

"And  then  you've  bought  it  to  .  .  ." 

"More  or  less,"  he  agreed.  "It's  a  very  special  case, 
of  course." 

"Well,  I  think  you're  splendid,"  Patricia  cried.  "But 
then,  everything  ..."  She  paused,  almost  overcome. 
"To-night,  everything's  splendid." 

And  with  that  she  began  quite  suddenly  to  cry,  large 
tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  while  Edgar  took  one  of 
her  half -raised  hands  and  held  it  in  his  own  until  she 
should  have  regained  self-control.  It  came  in  a  moment, 
and  her  friendly  smile,  so  almost  roguish,  pierced  the 


NEW  FRIENDS  39 

tears  and  obliterated  them.  Edgar  smiled  also,  in  relief 
and  friendship. 

"All  right?"  he  questioned,  very  quietly. 

Patricia's  other  hand  was  for  the  lightest  instant  upon 
his,  and  she  was  free.  She  nodded  reassuringly,  and 
with  her  handkerchief  caused  two  tears  which  stood  upon 
her  cheeks  to  vanish.  She  was  like  a  little  girl ;  but  she 
had  made  another  friend,  for  nobody  could  have  with- 
stood behaviour  as  free  from  artifice  and  so  full  of 
naive  emotion.  The  episode  was  finished;  but  its  con- 
sequences could  never  be  finished,  for  a  human  relation 
had  been  established,  and  these  things  are  undying. 


With  the  arrival  and  circulation  of  the  drinks,  Monty's 
party  took  a  new  turn.  The  noise  at  first  increased, 
into  such  a  sustained  and  stentorian  buzzing  that  the 
sounds  would  have  stunned  a  newcomer  unprepared  for 
such  celebrations ;  but  presently  the  noise  so  died  that  the 
steady  downpour  of  rain  could  be  heard  upon  the  studio's 
glass  roof.  The  cup  was  a  strong  one,  mixed  by  a  cun- 
ning hand ;  liqueurs  followed ;  tinklings  and  small  clashes 
were  audible.  The  party  grew  quieter.  A  heaviness 
began  to  show  in  its  members.  The  pallor  of  some  of 
the  guests  increased,  and  with  the  now  great  heat  of 
the  poorly-ventilated  room  there  came  closeness  and  some 
discomfort.  Only  Dalrymple  and  Frederick  Tallentyre 
(the  husband  of  Blanche — a  swarthy  man  with  a  mass 
of  dark  hair)  remained  at  the  buffet;  and  Dalrymple  be- 
gan to  laugh  quietly,  showing  his  old  yellow  teeth. 

Patricia  looked  once  at  her  escort,  and  if  she  also  had 
not  had  the  first  Benedictine  of  her  life  she  would  have 
been  shocked.  As  it  was  she  sat  still  beside  Amy,  her 
lips  a  little  swollen  and  her  eyes  glowing;  almost  noisy, 


40  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

but  no  longer  happy  as  she  had  been.  Any  outbreak  of 
noise  and  dancing  would  have  carried  her  with  it;  but 
these  people,  with  their  increasingly  white  puffy  faces 
and  the  seriousness  which  began  to  overtake  most  of 
those  present,  were  no  longer  adorable.  They  fell  into 
a  monotony  of  familiar  dummies.  Even  Harry,  eager 
though  he  was,  she  saw  with  less  intensity  of  vision. 
He  was  still  delightful  and  gay;  but  she  was  surfeited 
with  emotion.  Not  at  all  intoxicated,  but  over-tired, 
she  was  now  ready  for  the  end  of  the  evening.  She  even 
observed  the  first  departure  with  some  gladness.  De- 
partures began  and  continued. 

"I  say  .  .  .  I'm  sorry  .  .  ."  Harry  was  murmuring 
in  Patricia's  ear.  His  hand  was  upon  her  wrist.  "I 
say  ...  we  must  meet  again,  you  know." 

"Of  course,"  she  agreed,  her  face  clear  and  open  and 
full  of  the  sweet  candour  she  was  feeling. 

"How  .  .  .  when  can  I  see  you?"  He  was  hot  and 
urgent.  "I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  promised  to  see 
young  Rhoda  home.  But  ...  I  ...  er  ...  When,  I 
mean  .  .  .  when  can  I  see  you.  I  must  .  .  .  It's  got  to 
be  soon,  you  know."  Oh,  they  were  of  one  mind  upon 
that! 

Dalrymple  was  now  alone  at  the  buffet,  a  benign  smile 
upon  his  aged  face,  and  his  attitude  that  of  one  by  the 
world  forgotten. 

"Any  time.  Let  me  know,"  said  Patricia,  very 
gravely,  and  without  coquetry. 

"But  how  can  I  find  you?" 

"Amy  .  .  .  Any  way,  it's  .  .  ." 

She  was  giving  him  her  address  when  Rhoda  appeared 
against  the  doorway,  all  muffled  in  furs,  with  her  ex- 
pression one  of  impatience  ill-concealed.  Harry  shook 
Patricia's  wrist,  and  made  off  to  the  door.  He  turned 
as  he  reached  it,  and  kissed  his  hand.  Patricia,  with 


NEW  FRIENDS  41 

her  head  back  and  her  eyes  suddenly  sombre,  waved  in 
return.  He  was  gone.  She  turned  to  Amy,  who  was 
frowning  at  Jack  Penton.  Amy  sharply  whispered: 

"How  are  you  going  to-  get  home?" 

As  if  in  answer,  Dalrymple  approached  rather  lurch- 
ingly  from  the  buffet.  He  smiled  ingratiatingly  upon 
the  reduced  company. 

"Where's  .  .  .  where's  my  lit  ...  little  .  .  .  com- 
panion?" he  said,  coming  towards  them.  It  was  clear 
that  although  he  could  control  his  movements  he  was 
no  longer  quite  sober. 

"No,"  said  Amy,  in  Patricia's  ear. 

"I  wonder  if  I  might  give  you  a  lift  in  my  car,  Miss 
Quin." 

The  voice  was  that  of  Edgar.  It  was  so  quiet  as  to 
be  almost  an  undertone. 

"Oh,  do"  Amy  was  the  one  to  answer,  for  Patricia 
was  dazed. 

"Get  your  coat,  then.'  Will  you  take  her?"  Edgar 
supplemented  his  instruction  with  the  request  to  Amy; 
and  the  two  girls  moved  quickly  away.  They  saw  no 
more  of  Dalrymple.  By  the  time  they  were  dressed 
Edgar  was  waiting  in  the  hall;  and  they  stood  in  the 
doorway  together  while  he  started  the  engine  of  his  car. 
Two  great  lights  illumined  the  gravel  sweep  in  front  of 
Monty's  house.  Then  Patricia  was  in  a  warm,  soft- 
lighted  vehicle,  and  they  were  in  motion.  She  pressed 
back  in  her  place,  her  head  throbbing  and  her  mouth  still 
nervously  smiling.  It  was  as  though  she  were  flying 
from  all  unpleasantness,  very  tired  and  happy,  with  one 
she  trusted  and  would  have  trusted  with  her  life. 

"And  now  .  .  ."  said  Edgar.     "Where  do  we  go?" 

Patricia  was  looking  back  at  the  doorway.  In  it  she 
could  no  longer  see  Amy  and  Jack  Penton.  There  re- 
mained, silhouetted  against  the  light  of  the  hall,  only 


42  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

the  figure  of  Monty;  and  Monty,  so  still  that  he  might 
have  been  without  pulses,  stood  watching  the  departure 
of  Patricia  and  her  escort.  For  her  thereafter  there 
was  nothing  but  the  soft  purring  of  the  engine  and 
the  sense  of  security  and  safe  harbourage  against  all  the 
elements. 

vi 

In  the  studio,  Monty  stood  alone.  His  last  guest  had 
gone.  He  was  in  the  midst  of  that  stale  atmosphere  and 
the  wreck  of  a  past  entertainment.  Smoke  hung  about 
in  the  air,  the  faint  pungent  smells  of  the  drinks  and  of 
drying  dampness  combined  with  it.  All  was  hot  and 
vitiated.  Monty  stood  with  perspiration  faintly  upon 
his  cheeks  and  under  his  heavy  eyes.  He  had  mixed 
himself  a  glass  of  whisky  and  soda,  and  rested  it  now 
upon  the  mantelpiece.  The  soft  front  of  his  dress  shirt 
was  crumpled,  and  his  hair  was  less  thickly  smooth  than 
it  had  been;  but  he  was  otherwise  immaculate,  from  his 
beautifully-cut  dinner  jacket  to  his  patent-leather  shoes. 
He  looked  round  the  studio,  and  listened  to  the  pattering 
of  rain  above  his  head. 

Slowly  Monty  sank  into  one  of  his  soft  armchairs,  and 
set  his  glass  upon  the  floor.  Around  him  was  an  inde- 
scribable mess  of  cigarette  ash.  The  ghost  of  the  party 
was  risen.  It  was  ever}7 where  about  him,  in  the  now- 
silent  chatter  and  the  remembered  scents  and  interests 
of  the  evening.  Monty's  thoughts  were  not  mournful  or 
stagnant,  as  those  of  one  more  sensitive  might  have  been. 
He  was  entirely  collected,  and  satisfied  with  his  party. 
There  had  been  no  hitch  at  all ;  and  even  Dalrymple  had 
at  last  been  persuaded  to  go  by  the  arrival  of  a  taxi  and 
the  loan  of  his  fare.  Monty  was  alone,  well  content. 

All  the  same,  Dalrymple  must  never  again  come  to  one 
of  his  parties.  Monty  had  no  use  for  a  man  such  as  he 


NEW  FRIENDS  43 

had  shown  himself  to  be.  This  was  for  Monty  the  end 
of  Dalrymple.  Far  otherwise  was  the  case  with  Dal- 
rymple's  companion.  Far  otherwise  .  .  .  The  ex- 
clusion of  Dalrymple  must  not  affect  the  little  Quin  girl. 
She  could  be  reached  through  Amy  Roberts  .  .  .  possibly 
through  Harry  Greenlees.  .  .  . 

Monty  almost  smiled  as  he  had  this  last  thought. 
Then  he  became  serious  again.  He  had  other  matters 
to  think  of.  There  were  many  other  things.  .  .  . 

Half-an-hour  later  he  still  sat  in  the  studio,  and  at  last, 
as  his  manservant  came  into  the  doorway  to  ask  if  there 
were  any  further  instructions,  he  roused  himself  from  his 
reverie. 

"No.     Goodnight,  Jacobs,"  said  Monty. 

It  was  quite  remarkable  how  long  that  little  girl's  face 
had  remained  in  his  memory,  he  thought.  Fresh  .  .  . 
She  was  fresh.  Attractive  little  thing  .  .  .  Greenlees 
seemed  to  like  her.  .  .  ." 

Monty  laughed  quietly  to  himself. 


CHAPTER  THREE:  PATRICIA 


PATRICIA  was  indoors.  She  lived  in  two  rooms  in 
an  old  house  near  the  King's  Road,  and  her  rooms 
were  at  the  top  of  the  house.  As  the  door  snapped  behind 
her  she  saw  her  little  bedroom  lamp  as  the  only  illumina- 
tion of  a  narrow  passage  leading  to  the  stairs;  and  in- 
stinctively she  paused,  her  shadow  thrown  solid  and  leap- 
ing against  the  door,  while  the  muffled  sound  of  Edgar's 
car  died  away  in  the  distance.  The  house  was  dark  and 
silent,  and  Patricia's  heart  sank.  A  sigh  of  regret  es- 
caped her.  It  was  hard  to  come  so  abruptly  from  the 
glowing  scene  she  had  left,  with  her  brain  in  a  ferment  of 
all  its  new  memories  and  wonderings,  to  this  dingy  home 
in  which  all  was  so  tasteless.  She  slowly  mounted  the 
stairs,  smoke  from  the  lamp's  flame  smirching  the  glass 
chimney  and  rising  acrid  to  her  nostrils.  Her  bedroom 
was  cold;  and  a  damp  shivering  breath  came  from  the 
open  window,  across  which  the  curtains  were  yet  un- 
drawn. Outside  the  window  everything  was  black.  No 
lights  came  even  from  the  houses  that  backed  on  to  the 
one  in  which  she  lived.  She  could  hear  the  rustling  of 
the  rain.  A  shudder  shook  Patricia.  Deeply  chilled, 
she  moved  away  from  the  window. 

Even  when  she  was  in  bed,  and  slow  warmth  had  re- 
turned to  her  body,  she  was  conscious  of  unhappiness. 
It  was  not  that  she  was  normally  discontented :  she  suf- 
fered now  only  from  a  sense  of  the  acute  contrast  be- 
tween this  sullen  room  with  the  steady  rain  without  and 

the  warmth  and  peacock  brilliance  of  the  studio  she  had 

44 


PATRICIA  45 

left.  And  the  journey  had  been  so  rapid,  and  for  the 
most  part  so  silent,  that  she  was  plunged  sharply  back 
from  her  dreaming  joy  to  sombre  consciousness  of  every- 
day reality.  Had  there  been  a  gay  party  homeward,  had 
friendly  voices  shouted  jocular  farewells  from  the  pave- 
ment, the  happiness  might  have  continued;  but  she  was 
shaken  at  this  sharp  transition.  For  the  first  time  Pat- 
ricia girded  at  her  loneliness,  which  until  now — as  inde- 
pendence— had  made  her  feel  so  proud.  To  the  sense 
of  loneliness  was  added  a  memory  of  her  poverty.  To 
be  alone  and  poor,  young  and  eager,  was  to  struggle  with 
gloom  itself.  She  did  not  cry;  but  a  sob  rose  in  her 
throat.  It  was  such  unmistakable  anti-climax  to  be  made 
to  face  the  fact  that  she  did  not  rightfully  belong  to  this 
sparkling  world  of  noise  and  light  and  colour  in  which 
she  had  spent  the  wonderful  evening. 

"Oh,  dear !"  cried  Patricia  to  herself,  suddenly  desper- 
ate and  at  war  with  her  lot,  as  other  debutantes  have 
been.  "It's  too  bad.  It's  too  bad!" 

And  then,  fortunately,  some  little  recollection  from 
the  multitude  of  recollections  which  would  presently  dis- 
engage themselves,  made  her  smile.  A  soft  little  sound, 
such  as  a  baby  might  have  made,  came  from  her  throat, 
the  lips  being  once  again  closed.  Her  hands  were 
bunched  at  her  breast.  It  was  the  reaction  caused  by 
the  bed's  cosiness  and  her  sweet  exhaustion.  An  instant 
later  she  was  fast  asleep,  and  in  her  sleep  she  smiled  as 
she  dreamed  of  a  party  of  beautiful  gaiety,  in  which  she 
was  supreme  and  unchallenged,  .  .  .  the  admired  and 
the  adored  of  all  .  Patricia ! 


11 

In  the  morning  she  awoke  to  ambitious  determination. 
At  first  waking  she  knew  it  was  late,  and  sighed,  very 


46  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

drowsy  and  comfortable.  Happy  thoughts  began  to 
float  into  her  consciousness,  and  she  smiled  again  to  her- 
self like  a  little  girl.  But  when  Lucy,  the  maid  of  the 
house,  tramped  up  to  her  door  and  knocked  there  with 
knuckles  of  iron,  Patricia  no  longer  lay  in  reverie.  She 
instantly  arose,  took  her  primitive  bath,  and  was  in  her 
sitting-room  long  before  the  breakfast  arrived. 

There  were  no  letters.  There  were  never  any  letters 
for  Patricia.  Letters  never  come,  she  believed,  to  the  truly 
deserving.  She  had  a  hunger  for  letters.  She  longed 
intensely  to  be  like  those  young  men  in  demode  books 
who  opened  uncountable  bills  and  billets  doux  at  the 
breakfast-table  and  stuck  all  their  cards  of  invitation 
round  the  edges  of  the  mirror  upon  the  mantelpiece. 
The  mirror  vras  there;  but  no  cards  adorned  it.  The 
mirror  had  a  gilded  frame,  and  was  no  longer  very  fresh. 
It  was  flanked  by  vases  intended  to  represent  perfectly 
incredible  marble.  In  the  fireplace  was  a  gas-fire,  alight. 
The  floor  was  covered  with  green  and  red  oilcloth,  and 
a  woolly  rug  of  yellow  and  magenta  lay  before  the 
hearth.  There  was  a  sofa  against  the  opposite  wall,  and 
at  the  window  stood  a  sturdy  table  bearing  a  typewriter. 
In  the  middle  of  the  room  was  another  table  upon  which 
the  first  signs  of  breakfast  were  laid.  Here,  too,  was 
Patricia's  own  little  bowl  of  flowers.  That  bowl,  the 
flowers,  and  the  typewriter,  were  here  her  sole  posses- 
sions. The  rest  belonged  to  the  landlady  who  lived 
somewhere  far  below  stairs,  and  it  received  daily  a  severe 
banging  from  Lucy,  whose  speed  and  energy  exceeded 
her  competence  by  about  as  much  as  the  salary  of  a  com- 
petent staff  would  have  exceeded  Lucy's  wages. 

Patricia  went  to  the  flowers  and  raised  the  bowl  so  that 
she  could  still  detect  the  ghost  of  their  waning  fragrance. 
In  her  morning  dress  of  blue  serge,  the  collar  high  and 
the  shape  quite  simple,  she  seemed  perhaps  taller  and 


PATRICIA  47 

slimmer  than  she  had  been  on  the  previous  night.  But 
she  was  quite  as  pretty,  and  the  fresh  pink  of  her  rounded 
cheeks  betokened  good  health.  Her  hair,  which  was  not 
long,  was  arranged  to-day  as  it  had  been  arranged  at 
Monty's  party.  She  was  the  same  girl,  but  she  was 
graver,  because  this  morning  her  thoughts  were  more 
active  and  she  was  therefore  more  sad. 

She  remembered  old  Dalrymple,  whom  she  had  met 
through  the  agency  of  Amy,  asking  her  to  go  to  the  party 
with  him,  and  calling  for  her;  she  remembered  their 
journey,  her  entry  of  the  mysteriously  charming  house, 
of  the  studio,  her  first  sight  of  Monty  and  instinctive 
interest  in  that  dark  and  impenetrable  face.  And  then 
the  noise  and  brilliance,  and  Amy,  and  all  the  gay  talk, 
and  Mr.  Mayne.  .  .  .  For  a  long  time  she  was  shy  of 
permitting  any  thought  of  Harry,  as  one  sometimes 
leaves  the  finest  peach  to  the  last;  and  it  was  delicious 
to  be  always  almost  returning  and  arriving  at  Harry, 
to  feel  him  perpetually  there,  summonable  at  impulse, 
and  wilfully  to  hold  thought  of  him  in  reserve.  Yet  in 
reality  it  was  most  often  of  Harry  that  she  was  aware 
in  every  wayward  turn  of  memory. 


111 

Breakfast  was  another  blow  for  Patricia.  There 
were  bacon  and  eggs,  and  both  were  depressingly  cold. 
The  tea  was  strong  and  cold.  Not  so  would  breakfast 
be,  she  decided,  in  any  home  truly  her  own;  though  if, 
as  she  had  long  ago  assumed,  her  future  home  were  to 
be  one  in  which  servants  played  a  leading  part,  she  had 
no  notion  of  the  way  in  which  cold  breakfasts  were  to 
be  avoided.  Were  there  not  such  things  as  spirit  lamps  ? 
Patricia  had  not  stayed  often  enough  in  large  houses  to 
know  that  cold  breakfasts  are  inevitable  there  unless  the 


48  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

meal  is  eaten  in  the  kitchen.  She  merely  felt  sure  that 
Monty  had  hot  breakfasts.  But  she  did  not  associate 
her  confident* belief  with  the  fact  that  he  was  an  autocrat 
with  a  man-servant.  It  is  the  woman's  lot  to  be  ill- 
served  wherever  she  goes.  One  has  only  to  lunch  at  a 
woman's  club  in  London  to  have  this  truth  emphasised. 

So  breakfast  this  morning  was  a  disappointment. 
Only  good  digestion — which  she  fortunately  possessed 
— could  have  dealt  with  it  effectively.  And  with  break- 
fast finished,  and  the  dish  with  solid  streaks  of  grease 
upon  it  mercifully  concealed  by  the  cracked  dish-cover, 
Patricia  wondered  what  she  would  do  next.  She  was 
at  leisure,  which  meant  that  she  was  not  in  a  situation; 
and  her  ambition  exceeded  her  powers  of  performance. 
Her  father  and  mother  had  both  died  long  ago,  and 
Patricia  had  lived  the  greater  part  of  her  life  with  Uncle 
Roly  until  his  death  a  year  since.  He  had  been  a  casual 
man,  subsisting  from  week  to  week  upon  a  large  salary 
which  his  habits  converted  into  a  small  one.  What  he 
had  done,  except  to  go  to  an  office  every  day,  Patricia 
had  never  known ;  but  while  she  had  been  with  him  there 
had  always  been  plenty  to  eat,  idleness  and  chocolates 
for  herself,  and  drinks  for  Uncle  Roly;  and  a  holiday 
each  year  at  the  seaside  or  in  the  country.  And  then  he 
had  died,  to  Patricia's  great  but  quite  short-lived  grief, 
and  with  his  death  ended  the  salary  from  which  nothing 
had  been  saved.  Patricia  had  exactly  two  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  world  to  face.  No  relatives  barred  her 
path  with  offers  of  homes  or  advice.  There  followed  a 
situation  as  typist  at  a  time  when  even  young  girls  were 
able  to  find  remunerative  situations.  Dancing,  suburban 
gaiety,  restlessness,  and  boredom  lasted  as  long  as  the 
situation.  That  too  had  ended;  and  Patricia,  with  only 
one  hundred  pounds  of  inheritance  and  savings  left  (for 
she  had  not  been  thrifty,  any  more  than  her  fellow- 


PATRICIA  49 

workers  and  -players  had  been),  was  confronted  with  a 
new  problem. 

The  alternatives  were  another  situation,  which  was 
difficult  to  find,  and  a  life  of  vague  splendour  derived  from 
her  talent.  Search  for  the  situation  being  tiresome,  and 
therefore  not  very  sedulously  pursued,  she  was  inclined 
to  stake  everything  upon  her  talent,  as  yet  unproved.  A 
novel  was  undertaken — a  very  autobiographical  novel, 
in  which  the  heroine  was  extraordinarily  charming;  and 
short  stories,  small  poems,  little  sketches  and  essays, 
were  all  produced  from  her  brain  and  typed  by  her  busy 
fingers.  When  one  or  two  of  the  stories  were  accepted 
and  paid  for,  she  had  no  real  fear  for  the  future.  She 
was  sanguine  with  youthful  confidence;  and  her  remain- 
ing hundred  pounds  seemed  an  inexhaustible  sum.  As 
she  thought  of  these  things  Patricia  could  not  help  feeling 
rather  conceited.  Sometimes,  when  she  dreamed  of  her 
ultimate  fame,  she  could  almost  suppose  that  those  who 
passed  her  in  the  street  were  already  conscious  of  it. 

iv 

It  was  after  a  day  of  wasted  literary  effort,  when 
nothing  would  come  right,  that  Patricia  swept  aside  all 
sign  of  her  work,  and  sought  comfort  from  a  visit  to 
Amy.  Amy — at  least,  the  adult,  as  opposed  to  the  child 
of  other  days — had  first  been  encountered  by  accident 
about  a  month  previously,  when  she  and  Patricia  had 
both  been  shopping.  They  had  stared  at  each  other  for 
a  couple  of  minutes,  both  half-recognising  and  half- 
recognised,  and  had  then  pronounced  each  other's  names, 
reviving  a  school  friendship.  Amy,  who  was  alone  in 
the  world  of  London  aestheticism  by  her  own  choice, 
and  in  receipt  of  an  allowance  from  parents  who  had 
plenty  of  money,  was  embarked  upon  an  artistic  career, 


50  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

and  was  trapesing  about  from  publisher  to  publisher  with 
a  large  portfolio  containing  pen-and-ink  sketches  de- 
picting scenes  in  "The  Vicar  of  Wakefield"  and  other 
classic  novels.  She  thus  sought  employment  as  a  de- 
signer and  illustrator.  She  also  made  drawings  of  her 
friends  in  water-colour  and  experimented  with  oils;  but 
as  far  as  Patricia  could  see  (with  the  candid  eye  of  a 
true  friend)  she  spent  much  of  her  time  in  dressmaking 
and  in  drinking  tea  and  smoking  cigarettes.  She  wore 
her  hair  bobbed,  and  dressed  in  loose  cretonne  frocks 
and  brilliant  stockings  and  shoes  that  were  as  much  like 
sandals  as  anything  could  be.  She  had  a  casual  and  dis- 
satisfied air,  and  was  developing  extreme  untidiness 
under  the  impression  that  untidiness  was  distinguished. 
That  she  was  happy  in  her  chosen  life  nobody  to  whom 
it  was  unfamiliar  could  have  supposed;  for  it  held 
neither  security  nor  romance.  On  the  contrary,  it  re- 
sulted in  an  aimless  see-saw  between  gregariousness  with 
others  equally  ego-ridden  and  amateurishly  opinionated 
about  the  arts,  and  solitary  days  of  labour  at  work  which 
might  have  been  done  more  competently  by  those  of 
smaller  aesthetic  pretensions.  Still,  this  was  the  sort  of 
society  to  which  Patricia  felt  herself  at  this  time  drawn; 
and  bohemianism  in  any  guise  was  fascinating  for  both 
of  them.  They  became  good  friends  once  more.  Patricia 
made  her  way  to  the  chintz-adorned  studio  in  Fitzroy 
Street. 

Amy,  very  professional  in  a  long  overall  with  sleeves, 
carried  a  brush  between  her  teeth,  and  a  palette  over  her 
left  thumb,  as  she  opened  the  studio  door  in  answer  to 
Patricia's  mock-peremptory  knock. 

"Good!"  she  heartily  cried.  "Just  the  one  I  want. 
Don't  take  your  hat  off  for  a  minute,  and  turn  round.  I 
want  to  see  just  exactly  how  the  hair  grows." 

"All   over  the  place,   mostly,"   said   Patricia,   as  she 


PATRICIA  51 

obediently  turned.  The  picture  in  progress  stood  upon 
the  easel,  and  represented  nothing  upon  earth.  A  bloated 
something  without  form  carried  an  eye  upon  its  cheek- 
bone. The  miracle  had  been  achieved  of  showing  a  head 
upon  three  sides  of  its  common  aspect.  Patricia  ob- 
served it  with  respect,  although  she  might  have  been 
moved  to  great  laughter  if  she  had  found  it  in  a  child's 
painting  book.  She  looked  crampedly  from  her  stance, 
as  she  waited,  upon  such  part  of  the  room  as  was  to  be 
seen.  It  was  not  a  large  studio,  but  it  was  lofty,  and 
although  a  bed  stood  in  the  farther  corner  it  was  the 
best  combined  room  she  had  ever  seen.  It  would  be  pos- 
sible, she  thought,  to  be  quite  happy  here.  The  stained 
floor  was  bare  except  for  rugs  at  the  fire  and  beside  the 
bed,  and  a  large  easel  stood  right  under  the  glass  roof. 
The  studio  was  warm,  and  so  lighted  that  it  appeared  to 
stretch  indefinitely  into  the  dusky  corners.  The  only 
comfortable  seats  were  a  big  deep  armchair  and  a 
"podger"  which  lay  against  the  wall  by  the  side  of  the 
fire.  Patricia  continued  to  beam  upon  it  as  a  home  for 
one  such  as  herself.  She  coveted  the  studio  with  a  pure 
and  humane  covetousness. 

"Ye-es,"  presently  came  her  friend's  comment.  "All 
right,  thanks.  Sit  down.  Have  a  cigarette?  Well, 
and  you  got  home  all  right,  did  you?  With  your  gay 
companion." 

"He  was  gay!"  jeered  Patricia.  "He  hardly  said  a 
word." 

Amy  clucked  her  tongue.  "Too  bad!"  she  observed. 
"However,  you'd  have  got  soaked  otherwise.  Anyway, 
it  was  better  than  having  Dalrymple.  Did  you  ever  see 
such  an  old  toper  ?  It  was  amazing.  Monty  won't  have 
him  again." 

"Oh !"     It  was  a  cry  of  disappointment. 

"Oh,  that  won't  matter."     Amy  was  laying  down  her 


52  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

palette  and  searching  for  matches  as  she  spoke.  There 
was  cigarette  ash  all  over  the  hearth  in  front  of  her  little 
gas  fire,  and  ash  was  scattered  across  the  floor.  The 
bed,  covered  with  bright  chintz,  showed  that  she  had  lain 
upon  it  during  the  afternoon.  "You'll  be  invited  with- 
out him  another  time." 

"Shall  I?"  It  sent  a  spark  of  joy  through  Patricia 
to  hear  this.  She  looked  gratefully  at  Amy's  white  face 
and  smooth  hair.  "Really?" 

Amy  shrugged  with  a  conceited  air  of  boredom. 
"You  made  an  impression  last  night,"  she  announced. 
Patricia  laughed  gaily,  and  Amy  continued:  "It's  easy 
enough,  and  it  comes  naturally  to  you.  Of  course, 
Monty's  parties  aren't  what  they  were.  He  used  to  have 
a  lot  of  decent  people;  but  he's  peculiar,  you  know.  He 
gets  tired  of  people,  and  drops  them.  It's  the  privilege 
you  enjoy  when  you've  got  money.  Only  of  course 
you've  got  to  keep  on  making  fresh  friends,  and  he's 
not  as  bright  as  he  used  to  be.  He  used  to  be  able  to 
talk.  Now  it  isn't  worth  his  while;  so  he  says  nothing 
at  all.  He  thinks  it.  He's  sardonic." 

"He  looks  that,"  agreed  Patricia,  trying  to  seem  as 
expert  and  as  patronising  as  her  friend.  "But  he  looks 
interesting,  as  well;  and  that's  a  great  deal." 

"Oho !  I  should  think  he  was.  And  as  clever  as  the 
devil.  But  he's  a  beast." 

"I  don't  mind  that,  so  long  as  he  isn't  beastly  to  me," 
said  Patricia.  "I  don't  mind  what  anybody  does,  so 
long  as  they  are  nice  to  me." 

Amy  laughed,  and  professionally  flicked  the  ash  from 
her  cigarette  with  a  little  finger.  It  was  a  laugh  that 
held  dryness. 

"Oh,  they'll  all  be  nice  to  you,"  she  observed.  "No 
reason  why  they  should  be  anything  else." 

Patricia  pondered  upon  that  suggestion,  and  upon  the 


PATRICIA  53 

strange  gleam  in  Amy's  eye.  She  had  so  much  affection 
to  give,  she  thought,  and  she  had  met  so  much  kindness 
in  others,  that  there  really  did  not  seem  to  be  anything 
but  kindness  in  her  whole  life.  Even  Lucy,  in  her  rough 
way,  was  kind.  Amy,  of  course,  did  not  know  that,  and 
had  not  meant  to  suggest  it ;  but  there  were  things  which 
Patricia  still  did  not  understand  at  sight,  in  spite  of  her 
self-confidence  in  that  direction. 

"No,"  she  said.  "There  isn't,  is  there.  Except  that 
I'm  poor;  but  people  don't  notice  that.  Of  course,  Mr. 
Mayne  was  really  very  kind.  But  he's  rather  unbend- 
ing, I  think.  He's  .  .  .  well,  he  seemed  to  me  to  be 
rather  out  of  place  at  Monty's." 

So  soon  had  she  caught  the  trick  of  calling  all  persons 
by  a  Christian  name !  Amy,  from  a  greater  experience, 
noticed  the  more  nai've  satisfaction  of  Patricia  at  the 
habit,  and  was  amused  by  it. 

"Yes.  And  then  there's  Harry  Greenlees,  of  course," 
she  prompted,  a  little  inquisitively. 

"Yes,  Harry.  He's  awfully  nice  and  amusing,"  said 
Patricia.  She  was  instinctively  guarded. 

"Quite,"  replied  Amy,  now  very  dry.  She  shot  a 
glance  at  her  friend  that  hinted  suspicion.  "You  see 
in  that  one  evening  you  made  three  new  friends  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  pause;  and  then  Patricia,  who  knew 
nothing  of  suspicion,  went  on: 

"Amy  ...  do  you  know  Rhoda  Flower?" 

"In  a  way.  Not  well.  Just  from  seeing  her  at  that 
sort  of  thing — and  hearing  about  her.  She  isn't  any 
good." 

"What  sort  of  things  do  you  hear?"  Patricia  had 
caught  that  note,  at  least,  and  was  stung  by  it  to  a  ques- 
tion. Amy  shrugged,  since  she  had  no  fact  to  com- 
municate. 


54  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Oh,  nothing  .  .  .  Nothing  really.  But  of  course 
they're  always  together." 

Patricia  started  slightly.     They?     Rhoda  and  Harry. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said,  as  if  merely  in  acquiescence.  "I 
thought  she  was  pretty,  and  looked  all  right." 

"Rhoda?"  Amy  laughed  scornfully.  "Yes,  she's 
pretty.  But  she's  a  fool." 

"How  d'you  mean?    Not  got  any  brains?" 

"With  Harry." 

Patricia  was  puzzled.  She  just  prevented  herself  from 
saying  "But  I  thought  one  did  as  one  liked,  without 
question,  in  Bohemia." 

"What,  .  .  .  what,  is  she  in  love  with  him?"  she 
stammered,  her  eyes  wide  open. 

Amy  shrugged,  blowing  cigarette  smoke  from  her 
nostrils. 

"Oho,  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  a  particularly  meas- 
ured voice.     "Who  knows?     It's  not  the  sort  of  thing  \ 
one  woman  tells  another  unless  she  is  a  friend.     But    / 
she'll  burn  her  fingers  with  him,  you  can  see.     She's  not 
experienced  enough  at  the  game.     You've  only  got  to 
look  at  him  to  see  he's  after  every  fresh  face." 

It  came  like  a  flash  to  Patricia:  Amy's  jealous  of  me! 
She  was  aghast  and  amused  in  the  same  instant. 

"Oh,  well,"  she  cried,  with  masterly  skill.  "Who 
isn't?" 

And  then  Amy  and  Patricia  looked  at  each  other,  both 
smiling,  but  in  conflict  as  they  had  not  hitherto  been. 
Amy's  face  was  sickly,  and  there  was  an  extraordinary 
glitter  in  Patricia's  eyes.  Patricia's  thoughts  leapt 
quickly  forward,  skipping  all  reasons  and  shades  of  in- 
terpretation. It  was  not  merely  of  the  impression 
which  Patricia  had  made  upon  Harry  Greenlees  that 
Amy  was  jealous:  it  was  of  Patricia  herself,  of  her 
power  to  attract,  her  intelligence,  her  freshness.  Patri- 


PATRICIA  55 

cia,  even  under  her  horror  and  her  inclination  to  ridicule 
such  an  attitude,  was  conscious  of  a  sharp  accession  of 
complacency.  She  had  entered  this  new  world;  she  had 
seen  it  to  be  good;  she  had  triumphed  with  the  ease  of 
mastery.  It  was  her  fate.  She  was  confirmed  in  her 
belief  that  there  was  a  genuine  irresistible  something  in 
the  world  called  Patricia.  Nothing  was  impossible  to 
her.  The  chagrins  of  the  morning  were  obliterated. 


Presently  the  two  girls  busied  themselves  in  preparing 
a  meal  in  the  small  kitchen  attached  to  the  studio.  It 
was  not  a  feast ;  but  it  satisfied  them,  and  Patricia  loved 
the  sense  of  camping  out.  They  ate  it  off  a  small  round 
table  with  a  large  coloured  napkin  used  as  a  tablecloth. 
The  crockery  was  all  odd,  as  Amy  had  purchased  it  from 
a  former  tenant,  and  one  plate  bore  upon  it  the  name  of 
a  famous  hotel.  They  had  an  egg  dish  and  some  potted 
meat  and  some  thin  claret,  with  an  apple  apiece  to  com- 
plete the  meal  and  some  coffee  which  was  rather  the 
worse  for  wear.  Amy  smoked  cigarettes  continuously 
throughout,  laying  them  upon  the  edge  of  her  plate  dur- 
ing mastication.  Her  consumption  of  cigarettes  during 
the  day  was  considerable,  and  she  even  smoked  and  read 
in  bed.  Patricia  made  a  note  of  this,  as  it  seemed  to  be 
a  part  of  the  bohemian  life. 

"I  never  noticed  this  plate  before,"  she  suddenly  cried, 
alluding  to  the  one  which  had  upon  it  the  name  of  the 
hotel.  "D'you  suppose  it  was  stolen,  or  what?" 

Amy  shrugged,  and  wiped  a  small  piece  of  clinging 
tobacco  from  her  lip  with  a  forefinger. 

"May  have  been,"  she  said.  "Or  else  its  a  throw-out. 
You  get  them  cheap  in  markets,  I  believe." 

"I  hope  it  was  stolen,"   breathed   Patricia.     "Fancy 


56  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

eating  off  a  stolen  plate!  But  you'd  wonder  how  any 
body  smuggled  anything  so  large  out  of  an  hotel.  Aw- 
ful if  it  fell!" 

"You're  perfectly  ridiculous,  Patricia,"  said  Amy. 

What  strange  eyes  Amy  had,  thought  Patricia.  They 
were  like  big  blue-green  marbles.  They  stood  out  a  lit- 
tle. Or  perhaps  it  was  only  that  her  eyelashes  were 
fair.  Harry  had  beautiful  eyelashes — long  and  dark; 
and  they  made  his  eyes  look  charming.  She  hadn't 
noticed  Edgar  Mayne's  eyes  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  she  had. 
They  were  kind  and  brown.  Funny!  The  thought  of 
him  made  her  smile;  but  she  had  at  the  same  time  a 
curious  warming  of  the  heart. 

"Isn't  it  strange,"  she  remarked,  thoughtfully,  "that 
you  can  feel  perfectly " 

But  what  Patricia  had  been  about  to  commend  to 
Amy's  notice  was  lost;  for  at  that  moment  there  came 
a  tapping  at  the  studio  door.  Instantly  Patricia  had  one 
of  those  celebrated  intuitions  to  which  all  young  women 
at  times  are  liable.  She  felt  sure  that  the  person  knock- 
ing was  Harry.  It  proved  to  be  Jack  Penton,  who  came 
in  as  though  the  place  were  familiar  to  him,  and  stood 
frowning  at  the  signs  of  their  feast.  He  was  as  smooth 
and  insignificant  as  ever. 

"Oh,"  he  said,  in  his  rasping  voice.  "You've  had 
your  meal." 

"Nothing  left  for  you,"  answered  Amy,  brusquely. 

Jack's  manner  in  reply  was  protestingly  sullen,  as  if 
he  had  been  detected  in  a  fault. 

"I  was  going  to  ask  you  to  come  out  to  dinner,",  he 
grumbled. 

"I  don't  think  I  could  eat  anything  more,"  smiled  Pat- 
ricia. "It's  so  nice  of  you."  That  was  her  solace  for 
him,  a  contribution  to  what  she  felt  might  be  a  disap- 
pointment to  so  worthy  a  young  man. 


PATRICIA  57 

"Well  .  .  ."  He  hesitated.  "I've  just  got  along. 
Erm  .  .  .  Look  here,  I'll  go  and  get  something  to  eat, 
and  come  back,  if  I  may." 

Amy  agreed,  and  Jack  was  letting  himself  out  when  a 
notion  occurred  to  her. 

"If  you  meet  anybody,  bring  them  with  you,"  she 
called  after  him.  And  when  the  door  had  clicked  she 
turned  to  Patricia.  "Don't  go,  whatever  you  do  .  .  ." 
She  put  her  hand  to  her  brow.  "That  young  man  .  .  . 
He's  beginning  to  be  a  nuisance." 

"What,  Jack?"  Patricia  was  full  of  sympathy  for 
the  absent.  "But  he's  most  agreeable.  I  like  him." 

"Yes,"  responded  Amy,  with  rather  a  morose  air. 
"You  don't  have  to  put  up  with  him.  He's  moody. 
He's  got  a  fearful  temper,  and  he  sulks.  It's  the  tem- 
perament- that  goes  with  that  complexion.  He's  dark 
and  sulky.  He  hasn't  got  any  notion  of  ...  He's  old- 
fashioned:  .  .  ." 

"Do  you  mean  he's  in  love  with  you  ?"  asked  Patricia. 
"That  seems  to  be  what's  the  matter." 

"Oho,  it  takes  two  to  be  in  love,"  scornfully  cried 
Amy.  "And  I'm  not  in  love  with  him." 

"But  he's  your  friend." 

"That's  just  it.  He  won't  recognise  that  men  and 
women  can  be  friends.  He's  a  very  decent  fellow;  but 
he's  full  of  this  sulky  jealousy,  and  he  glowers  and  sulks 
whenever  any  other  man  comes  near  me.  Well,  that's 
not  my  idea  of  friendship." 

"Nor  mine,"  echoed  Patricia,  trying  to  reconstruct 
her  puzzled  estimate  of  their  relations.  "But  couldn't 
you  stop  that?  Surely,  if  you  put  it  clearly  to  him  .  .  ." 

Amy  interrupted  with  a  laugh  that  was  almost  shrill. 
Her  manner  was  coldly  contemptuous. 

"You  are  priceless!"  she  cried.  "You  say  the  most 
wonderful  things." 


58  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Well,  /  should." 

"I  wonder."  Amy  moved  about,  collecting  the  plates. 
"You  see  ...  some  day  I  shall  marry.  And  in  a  weak 
moment  I  said  probably  I'd  marry  him." 

"Oh,  Amy!  Of  course  he's  jealous!"  Swiftly,  Pat- 
ricia did  the  young  man  justice. 

"It  didn't  give  him  any  right  to  be.  I  told  him  I'd 
changed  my  mind.  I've  told  him  lots  of  times  that  prob- 
ably I  shan't  marry  him." 

"But  you  keep  him.  Amy!  You  do  encourage  him." 
Patricia  was  stricken  afresh  with  a  generous  impulse  of 
emotion  on  Jack's  behalf.  "I  mean,  by  not  telling  him 
straight  out.  Surely  you  can't  keep  a  man  waiting  like 
that?  I  wonder  he  doesn't  insist." 

"Jack  insist!"     Amy  was  again  scornful.     "Not  he!" 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Innocently,  Patricia 
ventured  upon  a  charitable  interpretation. 

"He  must  love  you  very  much.  But  Amy,  if  you 
don't  love  him." 

"What's  love  got  to  do  with  marriage?"  asked  Amy, 
with  a  sourly  cynical  air. 

"Hasn't  it — everything?"  Patricia  was  full  of  sin- 
cerity. She  was  too  absorbed  in  this  study  to  help  Amy 
to  clear  the  table;  but  on  finding  herself  alone  in  the 
studio  while  the  crockery  was  carried  away  to  the  kitchen 
she  mechanically  shook  the  crumbs  behind  the  gas-fire 
and  folded  the  napkin.  This  was  the  most  astonishing 
moment  of  her  day. 

Presently  Amy  returned,  and  sat  in  the  big  armchair, 
while,  seated  upon  the  podger  and  leaning  back  against 
the  wall,  Patricia  smoked  a  cigarette. 

"You  see,  the  sort  of  man  one  falls  in  love  with  doesn't 
make  a  good  husband,"  announced  Amy,  as  patiently  as 
If  Patricia  had  been  in  fact  a  child.  She  persisted  in 


PATRICIA  59 

her  attitude  of  superior  wisdom  in  the  world's  ways. 
"It's  all  very  well ;  but  a  girl  ought  to  be  able  to  live  with 
any  man  she  fancies,  and  then  in  the  end  marry  the  safe 
man  for  a  ...  well,  for  life,  if  she  likes." 
Patricia's  eyes  were  opened  wide. 
"I  shouldn't  like  that,"  she  said.     "I  don't  think  the 
man  would,  either." 

"Bless  you,  the  men  all  do  it,"  cried  Amy,  contempt- 
uously. "Don't  make  any  mistake  about  that." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Patricia.  "Do  you  mean  that 
my  father — or  your  father  .  .  .  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  meant,  nowadays.  Most  of  the 
people  you  saw  last  night  are  living  together  or  living 
with  other  people." 

Patricia  was  aware  of  a  chill. 
"But  you've  never,"  she  urged.     "I've  never." 
"No."     Amy  was  obviously  irritated  by  the  personal 
application.     "That's  just  it.     I  say  we  ought  to  be  free 
to  do  what  we  like.     Men  do  what  they  like." 
"D'you  think  Jack  has  lived  with  other  girls?" 
"My  dear  child,  how  do  I  know?     I  should  hope  he 
has." 

"Hope !     Amy,  you  do  make  me  feel  a  prig." 
"Perhaps  you  are  one.     Oh,  I  don't  know.     I'm  sick 
of  thinking,  thinking,  thinking  about  it  all.     I  never  get 
any  peace." 

"Is  there  somebody  you  want  to  live  with?" 
"No.     I  wish  there  was.     Then  I  should  know." 
"I  wonder  if  you  would  know,"  said  Patricia,  in  a  low 
voice.     "Amy,  do  you  really  know  what  love  is?     Be- 
cause I  don't.     I've  sometimes  let  men  kiss  me,  and  it 
doesn't  seem  to  matter  in  the  least.     I  don't  particularly 
want  to  kiss  them,  or  be  kissed.     I've  never  seen  any- 
thing in  all  the  flirtation  that  goes  on  in  dark  corners. 


60  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

It's  amusing  once  or  twice ;  but  it  becomes  an  awful  bore. 
The  men  don't  interest  you.  The  thought  of  living  witl 
any  of  them  just  turns  me  sick." 

Amy  listened  with  attention.  Her  eyes  protruded. 
She  tapped  her  foot  upon  the  floor. 

"Yes,  but  you're  not  sensual,"  she  said.     "You're  not 
an  artist.     Experience  is  a  thing  every  artist  must  have.-\ 
Not   a   humdrum   marriage,    and    children,    and   wash-  u 
ing   books  ...  I   must   have   experience — to  do  great 
work.  .  .  ." 

Patricia's  eyes  flew  to  the  canvas,  now  covered,  which 
stood  upon  the  easel. 

"But  .  .  ."  she  began. 

"You  drive  me  perfectly  mad!"  cried  Amy,  suddenly 
beside  herself  with  impatience.  "You  ask  questions. 
You're  like  a  child.  You  don't  know  what  torment  is. 
You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  bothered  the  whole  time 
with  all  this  .  .  .  never  to  get  away  from  it." 

"It  can't  be  very  healthy,"  said  Patricia.  Amy 
showed  her  teeth  in  an  angry  smile.  She  did  not  answer 
for  several  minutes,  during  which  her  face  became  set 
in  an  expression  of  discontented  egotism. 

"Sometimes  I  think  I'll  marry  Jack  just  to  find  out 
what  marriage  is  like,"  she  said  at  last.  "I  could  always 
leave  him  and  go  off  on  my  own." 

"Poor  Jack !"  thought  Patricia.  She  said  aloud :  "He 
wouldn't  like  that." 

"Oho,  he  wouldn't  be  any  worse  off  than  he  is  now." 

"He'd  be  prevented  from  marrying  anybody  else." 

"If  I  left  him  I  shouldn't  mind  what  he  did,"  explained 
Amy.  "Of  course,  he  could  divorce  me." 

Patricia  thought  she  had  never  heard  such  confident 
expression  of  selfishness.  It  was  one  thing,  she  felt,  for 
her  to  be  selfish,  because  she  really  was  wonderful;  but 
to  hear  Amy  speaking  as  though  she  had  no  need  to  con- 


PATRICIA  61 

sider  others  struck  Patricia  as  almost  abominable.  She 
was  pleased  with  the  word — it  was  almost  abominable. 
There  was  a  long  silence,  while  their  thoughts  ranged. 

"I  certainly  don't  think  you  ought  to  marry  him,"  re- 
marked Patricia.  "It  wouldn't  be  fair.  You  must  con- 
sider him  a  little.  His  feelings,  I  mean." 

Amy  stretched  her  legs  out  in  front  of  her  and  nestled 
her  head  in  the  corner  of  the  chair.  She  lighted  one 
cigarette  from  another,  and  slowly  took  two  or  three 
puffs. 

"You'll  find  that  it's  best  not  to  consider  other  peo- 
ple," she  said  at  length.  "They  only  become  a  nuisance. 
I'm  kind  to  Jack,  and  he's  a  nuisance.  I've  told  him  he 
can  go;  but  he  won't  go  unless  I  definitely  say  I  won't 
marry  him." 

"He's  very  weak!"  exclaimed  Patricia,  fiercely.  "I'm 
ashamed  of  him." 

"He's  not  at  all  weak.  He  wants  something,  and  he's 
waiting  for  it,  that's  all." 

"If  you  feel  like  that,  surely  it  shows  that  you  mean 
to  marry  him  in  the  end." 

"I  wonder  if  I  shall,"  murmured  Amy.  "Perhaps. 
Perhaps  not  .  .  ." 

"I  could  give  you  a  good  shaking!"  cried  Patricia. 


VI 

To  herself,  she  thought:  "She  thinks  she's  immoral, 

1  when  she's  only  conceited.     How  silly!"     And  with  that 

/  she  had  her  first  glimpse  of  Amy's  soul.     The  rapid 

(   judgment  of  others  which  children  possess  was  still  a 

/    faculty  of  Patricia's.     Her  self-knowledge   was  rather 

less.     This  that  Amy  indicated  was  to  her  an  unknown 

world;  but  after  all  she  had  preserved  her  own  liberty 

through  a  number  of  episodes  common  to  the  period  in 


62  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

which  she  lived.  The  superficial  excitements  of  dancing 
partners  were  not  unknown  to  her,  and  she  had  the  mod- 
ern girl's  knowledge  of  things  which  of  old  were  hidden. 
Only  a  quick  intelligence  had  saved  her  in  the  past,  and 
she  had  been  made  exceptionally  confident  by  experience 
in  her  power  to  deal  with  whatever  situations  might  arise 
in  her  own  life.  Amy,  who  looked  upon  Patricia  as  a 
babe,  continued  to  brood  upon  her  trials. 

"The  men  I  like,"  she  presently  admitted,  with  can- 
dour, "don't  seem  to  like  me.  The  men  who  attract  me. 
They  go  for  the  pretty,  dolly  woman." 

"You're  pretty,"  urged  Patricia. 

"They  don't  think  so.  What's  left  to  me  ?  People  like 
Jack."  " 

"But  Amy  ...  It  can't  be  so  .  .  ."  The  word  Pat- 
ricia sought  was  "casual."  "I  mean,  I  thought  one  knew 
— that  one  either  loved  a  man  or  didn't."  She  was 
pathetically  bewildered. 

"That's  in  days  when  a  girl  only  knew  the  man  she 
married,  and  one  or  two  others.  It's  different  now. 
You  know  a  hundred  men — who's  to  know  which  is  the 
best  of  them?" 

"Is  that  how  the  men  feel?"  asked  Patricia. 

Amy  stirred  in  discomfort.     She  was  ill  at  ease. 

"My  dear  girl,  you  don't  understand,"  she  said. 
'There's  physical  attraction;  and  there's  .  .  .  well, 
there's  being  pals  with  a  man.  But  the  old  ideas  of  such 
things  are  gone." 

Patricia  shook  her  head.  She  was  hearing  of  some- 
thing she  did  not  understand. 

"I  wish  they  weren't,"  was  all  she  could  find  to  say. 

"They  are!"  fiercely  cried  Amy.  "If  I  were  a  good 
girl,  living  at  home,  I  should  marry  Jack  and  be  told  I'd 
made  a  'suitable  match.'  But  I'm  not.  I'm  on  my  own. 
I'm  going  to  have  a  life  of  my  own.  I'm  going — I'm 


PATRICIA  63 

not  going  to  be  any  man's  property.     That's  finished." 

A  blank  misery  seized  Patricia. 

"I  wish  you  were  happy,"  she  murmured.  "Oh,  I  do 
wish  you  were."  It  was  the  only  thing  she  could  say, 
for  she  was  not  learned  enough  to  arrive  at  any  truer 
explanation  than  her  own  unutterable  thought  of  a  few 
minutes  earlier. 

Sombre  dissatisfaction  continued  to  cloud  Amy's  face. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Of  course,  you  don't  understand. 
You  couldn't.  You've  got  one  of  those  simple  little 
natures.  You're  content.  You  don't  know  what  suf- 
fering or  temptation  is.  If  a  man  says  he  loves  you, 
you're  ready  to  believe  him.  You're  ready  to  fall  in  his 
arms." 

"Am  I?"  inquired  Patricia,  dangerously.  Her  indig- 
nation was  rising. 

Amy  looked  suspiciously  at  her,  too  self-absorbed  to 
give  more  than  passing  attention. 

"You'll  see.  You're  younger  than  I  am.  Perhaps 
you'll  learn.  Perhaps  you'll  find  out  for  yourself  what 
suffering  is,"  she  admonished,  almost  with  a  grim  hope- 
fulness. 

There  came  again  a  sharp  tapping  at  the  studio  door, 
and,  as  if  bored  almost  to  lethargy,  Amy  slowly  moved 
to  answer  the  call.  Patricia,  instantly  alert  to  recall  the 
injunction  under  which  Jack  Penton  had  departed, 
imagined  hastily  that  he  might  have  brought  another 
visitor.  And  for  Patricia  at  this  time  "another  visitor" 
meant  one  only.  She  started  at  the  second  voice. 
Surely  it  was  Harry's.  Standing  now,  she  faced  the 
door,  and  could  see  beyond  Amy  to  the  figures  of  the 
two  men  who  entered.  First  came  Jack.  There  fol- 
lowed Monty  Rosenberg. 


CHAPTER  FOUR:  THE  REACTION 


MONTY  came  into  the  small  studio  very  much  as 
a  tall  man  enters  the  saloon  of  a  yacht.  His  head 
was  lowered,  and  he  produced  the  impression  that  all 
about  him  was  very  small.  Patricia's  first  thought  of 
Monty  was  a  disappointed:  "Oh,  he's  fat!"  But 
when  his  overcoat  was  laid  aside,  and  he  was  nearer,  she 
saw  that  whatever  he  might  become  in  the  future  he  was 
still  on  the  slim  side  of  corpulence. 

"What  a  pleasant  surprise,"  murmured  Monty.  His 
air  caused  Jack  Penton  to  appear  callow.  He  was  al- 
most mocking  to  Amy.  There  was  something  in  the  way 
he  held  his  shoulders,  and  stood  quite  still,  that  made 
him  seem  nearly  as  well-bred  as  a  servant ;  and  yet  there 
was  such  ease  in  his  manner  that  Patricia  felt  he  could 
never  in  all  his  life  be  for  an  instant  discomposed.  She 
envied  Monty.  She  was  silent  with  envy,  and  her  slight 
shyness,  which  was  expressed  by  such  graceful  uncon- 
scious shrinking,  was  an  added  charm. 

"What  happened  to  Dalrymple,  Monty?"  demanded 
Amy,  as  her  new  guest  took  the  armchair,  and  smiled 
down  upon  Patricia. 

"Oh,  he  went  home."  Monty  had  a  soft  voice,  per- 
fectly quiet  and  smooth;  and  he  almost  always  raised 
his  inflexion  at  the  end  of  the  sentence,  as  if  he  were  in- 
viting a  response. 

"He  was  drunk,"  said  Amy. 

"My  dear  Amy!"  Monty  cast  a  glance  of  pretended 
protest  which  included  Patricia,  but  seemed  also  to  asso- 

64 


THE  REACTION  65 

ciate  her  in  his  protest.  "There  are  so  many  stages  of 
drunkenness." 

"A  lot  of  the  people  were  drunk  last  night.  And  not 
jollily  drunk,  either.  They  were  all  white  and  puffily 
drunk."  Amy  was  persistent.  She  was  determined — 
as  ever — to  speak  the  truth  which  was  in  her. 

"How  unpleasant,"  remarked  Monty.  "But  you  en- 
joyed yourself,  didn't  you,  Miss  Quin?  I  hope  you'll 
come  again  when  there  is  a  sober  party." 

"I'd  love  to,"  cried  Patricia,  sparkling.  She  was 
happy  again,  the  perplexities  arising  from  her  talk  with 
Amy  forgotten.  "I  thought  it  was  a  wonderful  party." 

Monty  ran  his  eye  over  her,  with  the  quick  certainty  of 
a  connoisseur.  She  was  fair,  fresh,  volatile,  beautifully 
shaped;  vain,  and  therefore  to  be  reached  by  flattery; 
over-confident,  perhaps,  of  her  power  to  please;  but  un- 
spoilt and  capable  of  affording  him  interest  and  amuse- 
ment. He  had  no  interest  at  all  in  Amy.  She  was  too 
crudely  egotistical,  and  she  was,  besides,  too  set.  Monty 
could  have  foretold  her  expressed  opinion  (not  neces- 
sarily her  true  opinion,  since  she  was  often,  as  he  knew, 
unaware  of  what  she  really  thought)  upon  every  mat- 
ter that  was  likely  to  come  up  between  them.  Neither 
did  she  interest  him  physically :  for  that  she  was  too  hard, 
and  although  he  supposed  her  to  be  sensual  she  appeared 
to  Monty  to  lack  both  mystery  and  abandon.  So,  al- 
though he  knew  that  he  could  more  easily  create  an  arti- 
ficially-emotional situation  with  Amy,  he  gave  all  his 
interest  to  Patricia.  There  was  more  in  the  fresh  little 
new  girl,  he  decided,  than  in  anybody  he  had  recently 
met.  He  eyed  her  appreciatively,  as  a  gourmet  may 
eye  a  dainty  dish.  She  was  interesting.  All  she  did, 
even  if  she  did  nothing  but  sit  quite  still  upon  that  enor- 
mous cushion  beside  the  gas  fire,  had  grace  and  per- 
sonality in  it.  Especially  he  noticed  that  impetuous 


66  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

mouth,  which  might  betray  weakness  or  instability  or 
reckless  bravado,  but  which  could  never,  he  was  sure,  be 
associated  with  tedium.  He  resolved  upon  a  quick 
stroke.  He  saw  that  Amy  and  Jack  were  debating  some- 
thing which  removed  their  attention  from  his  own  activi- 
ties, and  so  he  bent  towards  Patricia. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  enjoyed  the  party.  Look  here  .  .  ." 
He  appeared  to  consider.  "I've  got  a  small  party  on 
Friday  ...  I  wonder  if  you'd  like  to  come  to  that. 
I'm  afraid  .  .  .  Let  me  see,  there  are  only  about  half-a- 
dozen  people.  .  .  ."  He  was  thinking  as  he  spoke,  and 
recollecting  the  names  of  his  guests.  "I  think  the  only 
one  you  know  who  is  coming  is  Mayne.  You  met  him, 
didn't  you?  Yes,  I  remember,  you  went  home  in  his 
car.  Would  you  like  to  come  ?" 

Patricia  could  have  jumped  for  joy.     How  lovely ! 

"I  should  like  to  come  very  much,"  she  made  herself 
say  very  sedately;  but  Monty  was  not  so  inexperienced 
in  these  matters  as  she  might  have  wished  him;  and  she 
was  not  altogether  sure  that  her  eagerness  had  escaped 
his  notice. 

"That's  delightful,"  he  said  in  his  gentle  way.  "So 
nice."  He  was  extraordinarily  polite  and  agreeable. 
And  in  an  instant  it  was  as  though  that  matter  were 
settled  and  forgotten.  Monty  rose  and  went  casually 
to  the  easel,  Patricia  watching  him  in  curiosity  as  he  con- 
templated the  monstrous  botch.  "Yes,"  he  said  at  last. 
"I  like  that.  That  bit's  awfully  well-done,  Amy."  He 
indicated  with  a  slowly  sweeping  hand.  Amy  was  by 
his  side,  her  expression  greedily  changed.  She  was  avid 
of  this  expert  flattery,  and  eagerly  receptive.  Jack 
Penton  hung  behind.  He  came  over  to  Patricia,  stoop- 
ing to  her. 

"Do  you  like  it?"     He  jerked  his  head  at  the  painting. 

"Very  much."     Patricia  was  doing  her  best.     She  had 


THE  REACTION  67 

not  had  much  experience  in  catching  the  true  note  of  art 
criticism;  but  a  rush  of  sympathy  made  her  cordial  to 
him,  and  anxious  to  say  what  she  imagined  he  might  find 
in  some  degree  reassuring.  Jack  shrugged,  and  took  a 
cigarette-case  from  his  hip-pocket. 

"I  can't  understand  it,"  he  said  bluntly.  "I  see  an 
eye,  and  a  blob  and  a  swish;  and  I  can't  make  it  into  a 
picture."  He  was  clearly  puzzled  and  undecided.  "I 
wish  I  could  understand  it,"  he  went  on.  "Suppose  I'm 
dull,  or  something." 

"Perhaps  it  isn't  everybody's  idea  of  painting,"  agreed 
Patricia,  guardedly.  "I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  much 
about  it." 

Jack  lowered  himself  to  the  floor  at  her  side. 

"I  wish  I  did,"  he  said.  "You  know,  I'm  interested, 
and  all  that;  and  I  want  to  like  it,  because  it's  Amy's. 
But  I  can't,  and  that's  all  about  it.  When  a  chap  like 
Rosenberg  comes  along.  .  .  .  He's  so  damned  fluent 
with  it  all.  .  .  .  You  see,  this  is  what  worries  me. 
He's  pulling  her  leg.  He  thinks  her  work's  awful." 

"Oh!    Oh!"  came  in  protest  from  Patricia. 

"It's  true,"  said  Jack,  gloomily.  "They  all  do.  To 
her  face  they  say  this  sort  of  stuff;  and  when  they're 
away  they  make  fun  of  it.  They  just  laugh.  I  wish 
she'd  give  it  up." 

"I  can't  believe  .  .  ."  began  Patricia,  greatly  dis- 
tressed. 

"No,  you  don't  want  to."  Jack's  dark  face,  already 
thin,  seemed  to  grow  haggard.  "Imagine  what  I  feel 
about  it.  They  shut  up  a  bit  when  I'm  there;  but  no- 
body thinks  she's  really  any  good.  And  what's  to  be 
the  end  of  it?  Can  you  see?  Can't  you  imagine  her 
going  on,  fiddling  with  this  and  that — water  colours  and 
oils — all  drunk  with  her  conceit.  And  then,  what  ?  When 
she's  soured  and  disappointed  she'll  .  .  ."  He  shrugged. 


68  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

During  the  speech  his  temper  had  risen,  and  his  tone  held 
a  stabbing  savageness.  "They  won't  care.  They  never 
care  about  human  beings,  as  we  do.  They'll  laugh,  and 
she'll  never  know  it,  but  she'll  think  there's  a  conspiracy 
against  her.  She  may  go  all  to  pieces;  she  may  pull 
through.  Anything  may  happen.  Sometimes  I  feel  in- 
clined to  leave  her  to  it;  but  I've  been  in  love  with  her 
for  years — since  she  was  a  kid;  and  I  feel  I  just  can't 
let  her  drop.  She  hasn't  got  a  friend  in  the  world  except 
me.  Not  one  that  cares  if  she  sinks  or  swims.  Look  at 
her  purring,  and  Monty  ladling  out  the  lies.  Look  at 
it!" 

He  checked  himself  as  with  venom  in  his  urgent  tone 
he  drew  attention  to  the  two  by  the  easel.  Patricia  had 
paled  under  the  fury  of  his  quiet  disclosure.  The  husky 
voice,  which  she  had  previously  disliked,  was  in  keeping 
with  his  mood  and  his  words,  and  it  therefore  assumed 
new  meaning,  and  her  dislike  was  gone  immediately. 
She  saw  him  as  a  young  man  deeply — almost  passion- 
ately— in  earnest,  but  she  was  saddened  by  the  picture 
of  such  unhappiness  as  his  must  be.  Her  vision  of  this 
whole  affair  became  horrible,  beyond  bearing. 

"If  her  work  isn't  any  good,"  said  Patricia,  "surely 
she'll  realise  it?  She  is  wise.  At  any  rate,  she's  shrewd 
enough  to  find  out  the  truth,  isn't  she?  If  it  is  the 
truth." 

"Never.     You    don't    understand    what  ...  all   this 
rot" — he  waved  vaguely — "means  to  her.     When  did  a 
dud — a  second-rate  person — ever  realise  his  second-rate-*, 
ness?     Why,  all  the  really  able  people  I  know,  or  that^\ 
I've  ever  heard  of,  are  humble — not  that  they  aren't  con-  f 
ceited,  too;  but  it's  in  a  different  way.     They're  humble 
as  well.     They've  got  a  sense  of  their  own  limitations. 
They're  not  like  Amy.     She's  mad  about  her  own  clever- 
ness.    She  calls  herself  an  artist,  when  it's  for  other 


THE  REACTION  69 

people  to  do  that.  And  it's  only  because  she  guesses 
there's  a  catch  somewhere.  She  feels  she's  failing,  and 
won't  face  the  reason.  There/ fi  nothing-  like  success  for 
lowering1  a  person's  conceit.  She's  never  had  any  suc- 
cess— not  real  success.  She's  got  to  make  it  all  up  in- 
side. Her  vanity's  all  out  of  control;  and  if  you  try  to 
warn  her  she  just  flies  into  a  passion  and  calls  you  a  fool 
for  your  pains.  She'll  never  have  any  success.  It's  im- 
possible, with  her  temperament." 

"Well,  then,  you  mean  she's  worthless,"  whispered 
Patricia,  with  indignation. 

"I'm  in  love  with  her,"  answered  Jack,  in  the  same  low 
tone  of  doggedness.  "That's  all." 

"Isn't  it  a  funny  sort  of  love  that  decries  ...  as 
you've  been  doing?"  She  was  still  warm  with  loyalty, 
to  hide  the  dreadful  convincingness  of  his  words. 

"You're  just  a  dear  little  girl,  as  kind  as  anything," 
Jack  said.  "And  you  think  I'm  a  cantankerous  fool." 

"No  .  .  .  never  that.  Oh,  no."  Patricia  made  a 
gesture  of  uneasiness,  her  hand  almost  upon  his  hand  in 
consolation.  "No,  I  think  you're  unhappy  and  bitter, 
looking  at  the  dark  side  .  .  .  exaggerating.  .  .  ." 

Jack  Penton  gave  a  little  bitter  laugh. 

"Exaggerating!"  he  said.     "I  wish  I  was!" 

"Then  leave  her.  Let  her  learn.  You're  only  driving 
her  deeper.  ..." 

"I  can't  leave  her,"  he  answered,  doggedly.  "I'm  in 
love  with  her.  I'd  go,  and  she'd  call  to  me,  and  I'd 
come  running  back.  See,  I'm  not  a  strong  chap.  Some 
men  could  do  it.  I  can't." 

"No,  no.  It's  dreadful.  Dreadful.  I  feel  helpless. 
I  don't  know  what  to  say.  I'm  so  sorry.  So  really 
sorry." 

Patricia  was  as  vehement  as  he.  She  was  carried 
right  out  of  her  young  ignorance,  as  she  often  was,  by 


70  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

emotion ;  and  she  sat  looking  at  him  with  a  glowing  face, 
her  eyes  melting  in  their  sympathy.  The  lines  upon  that 
poor  grey  forehead  and  round  those  troubled  eyes  hurt 
her,  and  the  bitter  droop  of  Jack's  thin  dark  lips  made 
its  direct  appeal  to  her  heart,  even  while  that  heart  sank 
inevitably  at  the  prospect  of  unhappiness  in  life  which 
lay  for  all  to  see  in  front  of  this  bewildered  lover.  It 
was  at  this  moment  that  Amy  and  Monty,  both  aware 
of  tension  in  that  other  corner  of  the  studio,  turned  and 
contemplated  their  companions.  Very  strange  impres- 
sions were  recorded  by  each  at  such  manifest  intimacy 
between  the  two  who  were  sitting  absorbed  by  the  fire. 


11 

Upon  Monty's  side  there  was  a  considerable  increase 
of  interest  in  Patricia.  It  was  as  though  he  addressed 
to  himself  an  appreciative  "Ah !"  at  the  sight  of  a  young 
woman  less  simple  than  she  appeared.  The  ideal  sport, 
for  him,  was  to  be  obtained  from  freshness  that  had 
savoir  fcdre  behind  it.  He  began  to  relish  this  girl.  As 
he  scrutinised  her  his  lids  were  low,  and  he  watched  for 
some  betraying  gesture  of  crude  sophistication  as  only 
an  expert  could  watch.  None  came.  He  was  the  more 
intrigued.  His  companion  was  less  passive. 

"Well,  you  two,"  cried  Amy.  "Jack's  the  perfect 
philistine,  of  course."  She  came  to  the  fire,  resting  her 
hand  upon  the  mantelpiece,  and  holding  a  cigarette  for- 
ward in  her  lips  for  Monty  to  light.  She  spoke  there- 
after with  the  cigarette  in  the  corner  of  her  mouth  and 
the  smoke  drifting  up  into  her  eyes.  "You  can  explain 
a  thing  to  him  in  words  of  one  syllable  for  hours  on  end, 
and  at  the  end  he  just  says,  'Well,  I  know  what  I  like !' 
Doesn't  turn  a  hair.  Not  a  swerve.  Isn't  it  marvel- 
lous?" 


THE  REACTION  71 

"Why  pretend  ?"  suavely  demanded  Monty.  "A  great 
deal  of  talk  about  the  arts  is  humbug.  It's  created  by 
the  apparent  necessity  for  saying  something." 

"I  agree  with  you,"  snorted  Jack,  who  was  still  ruffled 
by  the  recent  exploration  of  his  inexhaustible  troubles, 
and  who  therefore  was  in  danger  of  being  rather  less  than 
polite. 

"I  felt  sure  you  would,  my  dear  Penton,"  lazily  re- 
sponded Monty.  "What  we  need  is  standardised  crit- 
icism. Unfortunately,  people  are  so  perverse.  They  in- 
sist on  having  their  own  views/' 

"It's  only  a  pretence,"  said  Jack.  "They're  all  other 
people's.  Unless  they're  made  up  for  the  occasion,  in 
which  case  they're  nobody's." 

"When  you  say  one  thing,  and  somebody  else  says  the 
opposite,  what  happens?"  asked  Patricia,  directly  inter- 
rogating Monty,  and  feeling  bold  in  the  action. 

"I?  Oh,  the  other  person's  wrong,  of  course,"  re- 
joined Monty,  easily. 

"Is  there  no  argument?" 

"Oh,  no!"  Monty's  "Oh"  was  merely  a  quick  intak- 
ing  of  the  breath. 

"It's  ill-bred,"  sneered  Jack.  "In  the  aesthetic  world 
there's  no  argument  at  all.  One  just  slangs  everybody 
else  behind  their  backs." 

"Are  you  quite  well,  Penton?"  archly  inquired  Monty. 
His  question  made  Jack  grin,  but  not  altogether  with 
amiability.  "I  thought  you  might  be  ailing." 

"Why  is  it  that  anybody  who  speaks  the  truth  is  al- 
i  ways  suspect?"  asked  Jack,  vigorously.  "It's  extraor- 
|  dinary  to  me." 

"It's  because  you  live  in  the  material  world  of  unreal-, 
ity,  my  dear  Penton.  Once  you  realise  that  art  is  the 
fundamental  principle  of  life,  you'll  take  yourself  less 
seriously." 


72  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Patricia  thought :  one  for  Master  Jack.  Is  it  that  he 
does  that?  Does  he  take  himself — everything — too 
seriously?  I  think  so.  And  what  is  the  material  world 
of  unreality?  That  was  the  question  which  Jack  was 
asking  aloud. 

"The  world  of  phenomena,"  explained  Monty,  "is  the 
unreal  world." 

"The  world  of  seeing  and  hearing?  Well,  in  that 
case  what  tests  have  we  left  to  us?"  Jack  was  puzzled. 

"Nothing,"  whispered  Monty,  and  began  good- 
naturedly  to  laugh.  "None  of  these  set  measures.  Only 
the  intrinsic  value  of  everything  will  stand  revealed." 

"Pooh!"  said  Jack.  "I  wonder  what  your  intrinsic 
value  is,  or  mine." 

"It  lies  in  terms  of  character,  dear  boy." 

Patricia  saw  upon  Monty's  lips  the  shadow  of  con- 
tempt. She  saw  that,  imitatively,  Amy  was  reflecting 
just  such  an  expression.  She  sighed.  In  terms  of 
character!  Well,  why  should  Monty  be  so  confident 
that  the  superiority  lay  with  him?  And  why  Amy? 
She  almost  laughed  in  their  faces — not  as  a  token  of 
amusement,  but  as  a  protest.  The  word  "booh!" — with 
its  immediate  implications — would  have  expressed  her 
feeling.  They  were  only  complacent  because  they  had 
quicker  brains  than  Jack.  As  though  quickness  of  brain 
mattered!  She  had  it  herself,  by  starts,  and  was  quite 
abreast  of  their  comments. 

"What's  character?"  demanded  Patricia, 

"My  dear  child  f"  expostulated  Amy,  screwing  her  face 
under  the  smarting  onset  of  cigarette  smoke. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  This  time  it  was  Jack,  danger- 
ously bellicose. 

"It's  what  everybody  thinks  they've  got,"  said  Patricia. 

"When  they  haven't  got  it,"  added  Jack. 

"Oh,   not  nowadays,"  urged  Monty,  correcting  that 


THE  REACTION  73 

assumption  with  a  quite  lordly  indifference.     "We're  all 
so  self-conscious." 

"I  mean  .  .  ."  Jack  was  at  a  loss.  Patricia's  brain 
supplemented  his  deficiency;  but  she  had  not  the  courage 
to  say  her  thoughts  aloud.  He  meant  that  it  was  not  of 
character  that  people  were  vain.  It  was  of  accomplish- 
ments; of  quickness,  skill,  beauty.  And  yet  .  .  . 

"It  all  goes  much  deeper  than  you  think,"  she  an- 
nounced; and  by  provoking  sharp  laughter  from  them 
all  by  this  profundity,  Patricia  saved  the  argument  about 
reality  from  becoming  a  real  argument.  It  was  a  lively 
contribution  to  the  evening. 

"A  philosopher!"  cried  Monty,  in  his  slow,  rather 
jeering  way,  very  easily  and  as  if  all  views  were  one  to 
him. 

"Very    well:    we'll    see,"    thought    Patricia.     Rebel- 
liously,  she  was  aware  of  power  within  herself  trans- 
cending all  quickness  and  all  agility.    It  was  the  power  in 
virtue  of  which  she  was  peculiarly  Patricia.     She  had  > 
not  caught  more  than  the  faintest  glimpse  of  the  fact  that  N 
Monty  had  been  playing  with  them  all,  and  that  his  in-V 
terest  during  the  whole  of  the  discussion  had  been  con- 
centrated upon  the  changes  of  expression  to  be  noted  in 
rapid  progress  across  Patricia's  very  readable  face. 

\ 
v 

111 

"You  must  have  honesty,"  grumbled  Jack.  "It's  att.^ 
so  simple.  If  a  chap's  honest  and  decent,  his  cleverness  S 
doesn't  matter.  That's  what  you  mean  by  character,  J 
I  take  it."  --/ 

"That's  what  you  mean,"  suggested  Monty. 

"If  a  man's  a  liar  .  .  ." 

It  was  here  that  Patricia  interrupted  Jack  for  his  sal- 
vation. 


74  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Jack:  don't  be  logical,"  she  pleaded.  "You  couldn't 
convince  anybody  by  logic." 

He  gave  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"That's  just  it,"  he  sighed.     "That's  what  I  complain 
of,   nowadays.     There's   all   this   damned  affected   canfS 
against  sense.     People  first  find  out  what  they  ought  toS 
do,  and  then  do  something  else,  in  case  they  should  be  I 
suspected  of  sense." 

Amy  and  Monty  were  no  longer  listening.  Patricia 
gave  Jack  a  warning  glance.  What  he  said,  so  far  as 
she  understood  it  at  all,  appeared  to  be  ridiculous. 

"I  must  go."  Monty  rose.  He  bent  over  Patricia. 
"You'll  come  on  Friday.  At  eight  o'clock?  Splendid." 
Neither  of  the  others  heard  him.  Swarthy  and  regal,  he 
moved  slowly  into  his  overcoat  and  swept  them  a  slight 
bow  upon  leaving.  With  his  going,  there  went  from  the 
studio,  for  Patricia,  all  vividness  of  interest.  She  was 
prepared  to  look  with  distaste  at  both  of  her  remaining 
companions.  To  them  the  inevitable  squabble  might  be 
— must  be — of  importance,  but  she  felt  she  was  tired  of 
them.  They  bored  her.  They  took  themselves  too 
seriously.  It  was  all  thoroughly  ugly  and  absurd.  Peo- 
ple with  only  one  idea! 

She  waited,  enduring  the  opening  stages  of  a  wrangle. 

"My  dear  Jack.  Why  you  must  make  a  fool  of  your- 
self .  .  ."  began  Amy,  as  soon  as  the  door  had  closed. 
The  trouble  continued.  Saying  nothing,  Patricia  put  on 
her  coat. 

"I'm  going,"  she  announced,  curtly;  and  left  them  to 
their  self-important  disagreement. 


IV 

On  the  way  home,  Patricia  thought  much  of  what  she 
had  heard  during  the  evening  from  both  Amy  and  Jack. 


THE  REACTION  75 

By  a  strange  chance,  she  had  heard  in  the  same  hour 
both  sides  of  an  unhappy  conflict;  and  this  must  always 
be  a  depressing  experience.  It  set  a  weight  upon  her 
heart  during  the  whole  of  her  journey.  She  saw  Jack, 
incapable  of  measuring  his  words  with  tact;  honest, 
puzzled,  commonplace;  she  saw  Amy  selfish  and 
shortsighted;  without  talent,  sure  of  her  own  Tightness 
and  cleverness.  Patricia  did  not  know  that  in  each  esti- 
mate her  mind  was  quite  naturally  registering  the  adverse 
statements  which  had  been  made  to  her  by  the  prejudiced 
parties. 

She  turned  into  the  street  in  which  her  home  lay,  and 
for  the  first  time  knew  that  the  hour  must  be  late.  The 
houses  were  all  dark.  In  her  own  house,  above  the  door, 
she  could  see  only  the  faintest  of  lights,  which  must  be 
that  of  her  little  bedroom  lamp.  Patricia  shrank,  laugh- 
ing to  herself,  at  the  thought  of  her  landlady's  views  on 
successive  late  nights.  Disapproval!  Well,  she  must 
get  used  to  that  sort  of  thing.  In  future  there  might  be 
many  late  nights.  Parties  of  every  -kind  danced  before 
her.  Patricia,  living  for  herself,  and  venturing  forth 
into  this  new  world  of  vivid  personality  and  adventure, 
was  above  fear  of  what  any  landlady  might  think.  The 
lure  of  anti-conventionality  was  before  her.  She 
laughed  quietly  in  enjoyment  of  its  charm. 

Nevertheless,  she  opened  the  front  door  with  stealth. 
Her  expectation  as  to  the  scene  which  was  to  meet  her 
eyes  was  fulfilled.  Before  her,  upon  the  hall-table,  stood 
the  little  lamp,  turned  very  low  in  case  it  should  smoke. 
Cavernous  blackness  lay  along  the  passage,  towards  the 
kitchen  stairs;  and  above,  where  she  must  herself  go, 
was  a  drab  shadow  towards  which  she  must  not,  for 
courage's  sake,  look  too  sensitively,  lest  it  be  peopled 
with  imagined  horrors.  Grey  ceilings  receded  into  the 
dimmest  of  distances.  Patricia  closed  the  door,  feeling 


76  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

upon  her  cheeks  a  little  warmth  from  the  atmosphere  of 
the  house  and  its  most  recent  meal.  Something  very 
small  and  white  lay  upon  the  table  immediately  beside 
the  lamp;  and  with  the  thought  that  it  must  concern 
herself  she  picked  it  up  at  once.  Her  heart  gave  a  sud- 
den throb.  Almost,  her  lips  trembled.  She  gazed  at  the 
card  over  which  she  was  bending;  and  the  mood  of  un- 
happiness  swept  again  upon  a  heart  that  had  already 
been  deeply  troubled  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

Then,  slowly,  Patricia  took  her  lamp  and  went  up  the 
stairs,  Harry's  card  between  her  fingers. 


CHAPTER  FIVE:  EDGAR  MOVES 


BUT  however  miserable  Patricia  may  have  felt  at 
night,  she  rose  rewarded  in  the  morning;  for  upon 
her  breakfast-table  she  found  a  letter  in  an  unknown 
handwriting.  She  pounced  upon  it  with  a  lifting  of  the 
heart.  "Miss  Patricia  Quin,"  she  read.  The  handwrit- 
ing was  small  and  flowing,  firm  and  curly.  All  the 
capital  letters  were  large  and  beautifully  formed;  and 
yet  there  was  a  carelessness  and  grace  in  the  general 
style  which  charmed  her.  The  post  mark  she  could  not 
decipher.  With  sudden  resolution,  Patricia  tore  open 
the  envelope,  her  intuition  for  once  the  infallible  intui- 
tion of  every  woman's  dream. 

"Dear  Patricia.  Sorry  you  were  not  in  when  I  called. 
What  about  coming  out  to  dinner  and  to  dance  after- 
wards on  Saturday?  I  suggest  the  Marnier,  seven- 
thirty  sharp;  and  then  on  to  either,  Topping's  or  the 
Queensford.  Yours  ever,  Harry." 

Patricia  gave  a  low  laugh,  and  read  the  letter  through 
a  second  time.  How  lucky  that  she  would  have  a  new 
dress!  She  sat  down  at  once,  with  her  notepaper  and 
pen,  biting  the  end  of  the  pen  as  she  planned  the  reply. 

"Dear  Harry,"  she  wrote.  "Splendid.  Marnier, 
seven-thirty.  Then  which  ever  you  like.  I've  never 
been  to  either.  Yours  ever,  Patricia." 

77 


78  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

She  carefully  sealed  the  envelope,  and  wrote  the  address 
in  a  handwriting  as  near  that  of  Harry  as  her  natural 
penmanship  allowed.  She  was  still  contemplating  the 
letter  and  re-reading  her  invitation  when  Lucy  kicked 
the  door  open  and  stamped  into  the  room,  kicking  the 
door  back  again  with  her  heel.  Both  sides  of  the  door 
showed  signs  of  Lucy's  regular  methods.  With  raw 
and  dirty  hands  Lucy  dumped  down  the  meal. 

"Cole,"  she  remarked  agreeably.  "Young  man  come 
for  you  larce  night,  tole  me  to  say  he's  sorry  to  miss  you." 

"Yes,  thank  you." 

"Gotcher  letter,  then,"  said  Lucy. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Lucy."  Patricia  was  trying  to  be 
sedate;  but  the  sharp  grey  eyes  of  Lucy,  which  shone 
from  above  red  cheeks  and  a  snub  nose  and  a  grimy  neck, 
were  inexorable. 

"Thought  he'd  write,"  said  Lucy.  "I  ses,  'Can  I  take 
any  message?' — you  know,  sweet  as  sugar.  He  gimme 
a  card.  Wouldn't  leave  no  message.  Fine  lookin' 
young  man,  he  was." 

"I  expect  you  were  very  excited,"  said  Patricia,  dryly 
— even,  she  hoped,  quellingly.  Lucy  stood  looking  down 
at  her,  very  sturdy  and  determined. 

"What  say?"  she  asked.  Patricia  repeated  her  re- 
mark. Lucy  turned  abruptly.  "No,"  she  said,  over  a 
raised  shoulder.  "But  I  thought  you  would  be." 

She  was  gone,  leaving  Patricia  faintly  pink. 

ii 

Although  cold,  it  was  a  fresh  morning.  The  clouds 
had  gone,  and  the  sky  was  blue.  Patricia — having  eaten 
her  breakfast  and  hurried  exultingly  out  of  doors — felt 
a  strong  temptation  to  run  along  one  of  the  streets  lead- 
ing riverwards.  She  could  imagine  herself  standing 


EDGAR  MOVES  79 

upon  the  Albert  Bridge  and  looking  down  at  the  swiftly- 
moving  Thames.  A  fine  breeze  would  be  sweeping 
there.  She  would  be  able  to  pretend  that  she  was  at 
sea.  How  stern  Patricia  must  be  with  herself!  She 
vigorously  maintained  her  course  along  the  King's  Road, 
towards  Sloane  Square,  and  there  made  her  purchases. 
She  thought:  "I'm  not  like  these  other  women.  I 
know  what  I  want.  They  stand  fingering  stockings  for 
half-an-hour.  I  suppose  it's  a  hobby.  I  simply  ask  for 
what  I  want.  And  get  it" 

This  made  her  seem  to  the  assistant  who  served  her 
somewhat  peremptory.  Patricia  took  no  interest  in 
shop-assistants  when  she  bought  material  for  a  dress  for 
herself.  She  thought  she  did;  but  although  she  became 
indignant — vicariously — at  thought  of  shop-assistants' 
wages,  she  did  not  really  acknowledge  that  in  relation  to 
herself  they  had  any  existence.  She  retired  from  the 
shop  with  approximately  what  she  had  entered  for  the 
purpose  of  buying;  and  the  assistant  watched  her  go 
with  an  air  of  some  preoccupation.  As  another  assist- 
ant near  her  was  doing  the  same  thing,  the  two  gathered 
together  in  order  to  discuss  Patricia.  They  appeared 
to  rub  noses,  as  kittens  might  have  done;  mournfully  and 
confidingly,  holding  conversation  in  a  whisper,  and 
separated  only  at  the  entrance  of  another  customer. 

"Yes,  moddam?"  inquired  Patricia's  shop-assistant, 
with  mechanical  address. 

Patricia  was  far  down  the  King's  Road,  carrying  her 
parcel. 

"I  should  hate  to  be  a  shop-assistant,"  she  impulsively 
thought.  "It  must  be  a  rotten  life,  attending  to  people 
who  don't  know  what  they  want,  and  stand  fingering 
stockings  for  half-an-hour,  and  then  buy  a  reel  of  cotton. 
They  like  me,  because  I  know  what  I  want." 

She  could  not  help  being  rather  pleased  with  herself.    - 


80  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iii 

Now,  while  Patricia  was  busy  making  her  dress,  and 
forgetting  altogether  that  she  was  going  to  meet  him  on 
the  Friday  night,  Edgar  Mayne,  who  did  not  even  know 
that  the  meeting  was  to  occur,  was  working  quietly  in 
his  office,  transacting  business  in  which  he  had  only  a 
material  interest.  Edgar  was  one  of  those  men,  of  whom 
there  are  many,  who  made  money  without  deliberately 
^  intending  to  do  so.  It  was  true,  as  Harry  had  announced 
/  at  the  party,  that  Edgar  had  begun  life  as  an  office  boy. 
He  had  left  school  at  the  age  of  fourteen,  and  had  an- 
swered advertisements  until  one  of  them  brought  a 
favourable  reply.  He  had  begun  life  by  copying  letters 
by  means  of  damp  sheets  and  a  press;  and  he  had  been 
promoted  a  year  later  to  a  junior  clerkship.  He  had  no 
interest  in  figures  beyond  that  which  natural  aptitude 
could  supply.  He  had  none  of  the  born  accountant's 
delight  in  their  possibilities.  Solely,  he  brought  to  his 
accounts  a  character  naturally  precise,  and  with  similar 
ease  he  could  at  this  time  have  directed  his  intelligence 
to  many  other  matters.  If  Edgar's  parents  had  been 
wealthy,  he  would  have  had  a  complete  education,  and 
his  gifts  would  have  promised  a  great  career;  but  they 
were  poor,  and  themselves  ill-educated,  and  so  it  became 
necessary  that  Edgar  should  early  add  something  to  the 
weekly  budget.  He  did  so. 

From  one  competence  he  advanced  to  another.  By 
the  time  he  was  thirty,  Edgar  was  manager  of  the  busi- 
ness, which  dealt  in  the  importation  of  those  goods  which 
English  people  require  from  abroad,  and  the  exportation 
of  goods  produced  in  England  for  which  there  was  a 
foreign  market.  He  never  saw  the  goods  in  bulk;  but 
he  saw  samples  of  them  and  was  furnished  with  myriads 
of  catalogues  specifying  their  quality  and  the  current 


EDGAR  MOVES  81 

market  rates  at  which  they  were  to  be  bought  and  at  which 
they  were  being  sold.  By  means  of  occasional  visits 
abroad,  by  more  frequent  interviews  and  excursions  in 
England,  Edgar  grew  to  considerable  knowledge  of 
prices  and  conditions  of  manufacture.  His  advice  was 
thus  demanded  by  those  directing  the  firm,  who  pres- 
ently invited  him  to  become  one  of  their  number.  With 
increase  of  business  came  increase  of  income  and  power; 
and  as  Edgar's  interests  extended  he  found  himself  at 
thirty-seven  a  man  of  some  wealth,  who  had  at  the  same 
time  a  considerable  standing  among  those  able  to  appre- 
ciate his  commercial  acumen. 

During  this  time  his  family  had  shared  his  progress. 
His  father  no  longer  worked;  his  mother  directed  the 
household,  but  no  longer  laboured  upon  her  knees  to 
keep  it  clean  and  neat.  His  younger  brother,  if  he  had 
not  been  killed  in  the  War,  would  have  benefited  equally ; 
while  his  young  sister  Claudia  stayed  at  home  and  amused 
herself  and  everybody  else  very  much  by  a  display  of 
housewifely  virtues  for  which  many  others  girls  of  her 
period,  even  if  they  have  the  inclination,  can  find  nowa- 
days no  opportunity.  The  family,  having  spent  miser- 
able years  in  a  place  called  West  Hampstead,  had  moved 
seven  years  before  the  opening  of  this  story  to  Kensing- 
ton, where  they  occupied  a  small  house  and  spent  an 
agreeable,  if  aimless,  existence.  The  elders,  who  were 
proud  of  Edgar,  feared  him  a  little ;  his  sister,  proud  also, 
feared  him  not  at  all.  It  was  she,  in  fact,  who  had  kept 
Edgar  human;  for  without  her  he  might  either  have 
become  lost  in  his  business  or  have  married  some  tepid 
young  woman  who  herself  had  cast  the  die. 

The  household  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mayne, 
Claudia,  Edgar,  Pulcinella  (a  small  but  irrepressible 
Cocker  Spaniel),  Percy  (a  cat  with  a  character),  and  a 
cook  and  maids  who  were  both  respectfully  spoiled  by 


82  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Mrs.  Mayne,  The  servants  despised  Mrs.  Mayne,  and 
idolised  her  children.  There  was  nothing  which  Claudia 
might  not  do  without  fault;  and  Edgar  was  so  unob- 
trusively tended  that  he  was  almost  unaware  of  the  de- 
votion which  breathed  firmly  from  the  kitchen.  He  went 
his  way,  liking  very  simple  things  and  dealing  with  them 
as  they  arose;  and  none  knew  the  secret  chagrin  which 
lay  always  in  his  solitary  heart. 


IV 

This  chagrin  was  nothing  less  than  loneliness.  He 
did  not  easily  make  friends.  His  office  work  had  so 
occupied  his  time  and  energy  that  Edgar  had  become 
rather  shy  in  company.  And  so,  while  Claudia  had  a 
few  friends,  he  had  none.  Claudia's  friends  seemed  to 
him  to  be  dull  little  boys  and  girls,  for  Claudia  was  a 
good  deal  younger  than  himself;  and  although  he  was 
amused  when  one  or  other  of  them  was  timidly  pert  to 
him  they  combined  together  to  make  him  feel  old.  He 
had  the  reputation  of  a  born  celibate.  Work,  therefore,  J 
and  more  work,  kept  him  rather  staid.  Edgar's  fear 
was  that  he  might  dry  up  altogether  before  he  had  ever  / 
had  time  to  live.  With  a  warm  heart,  an  eager  sym- 
pathy, and  a  manner  so  reserved  and  shy  that  it  gave 
the  appearance  of  coldness,  he  was  in  danger — not,  as 
he  thought,  of  drying  up,  but  of  making  some  ridiculous 
plunge  into  emotionalism  which  might  wreck  his  life. 

Since  the  night  of  Monty's  party,  Edgar  had  thought 
much  of  Patricia.  It  did  not  please  him  to  think  of  her 
in  the  rather  sophisticated  company  of  those  who  had 
gathered  at  Monty's.  She  was  clearly  delighted  with 
these  people,  and  they  were  a  danger  to  her  purity.  Ed- 
gar thought  more  of  Patricia  during  that  week  than  of 
any  other  person.  He  liked  her.  He  would  have  liked 


EDGAR  MOVES  83 

to  help  her — oh,  always  unobtrusively,  so  that  she  could 
not  be  embarrassed  by  his  help; — but  also  not  perhaps 
quite  as  impersonally  as  he  supposed. 

It  was  therefore  with  a  start  of  delight  and  surprise 
that  Edgar,  upon  arriving  at  Monty's  house,  found  that 
Patricia  was  to  be  his  neighbour  at  dinner. 


His  car  had  been  behaving  erratically  en  route,  which  is 
a  way  cars  behave  when  they  ought  to  be  in  perfect  order ; 
and  therefore  Edgar  strode  into  the  house  with  grimy 
hands,  and  kept  the  party  waiting  for  several  minutes 
while  he  washed.  At  last,  hot  and  irritated,  he  joined 
the  others,  to  find  only  Patricia,  Monty,  some  people 
called  Quellan,  and  Blanche  Tallentyre.  All  were  sitting 
or  standing  in  a  small  drawing  room,  and  dinner  was 
immediately  announced.  Upon  his  left  Edgar  found 
Mrs.  Quellan,  a  fair,  large  woman,  originally  thin  and 
raw-boned,  who  was  accumulating  undesired  and  unde- 
sirable plumpness;  and  who  wrote  books  for  boys  under 
a  masculine  pseudonym.  Upon  his  right  was  Patricia, 
from  whose  dress  all  except  one  tiny  white  thread  had 
been  removed  at  exactly  the  moment  when  she  should 
have  begun  her  journey.  The  thread  caught  her  eye  as 
they  sat  down.  It  also  caught  Edgar's  eye,  which  was 
not  unused  to  such  sights. 

"I  might  have  called  for  you  if  I  had  known  you  were 
coming,"  he  said,  unfolding  his  napkin. 

"If  you  had,  I  should  have  kept  you  waiting,"  re- 
sponded Patricia,  with  a  small  grimace. 

"Were  you  busy  up  to  the  last  minute,  then?" 

"Beyond  that!"     They  laughed  together. 

Then  Edgar  glanced  round  the  handsome  room  with 
its  high  and  painted  ceiling  and  its  curiously  severe  walls 


84  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

of  luminous  grey.  It  was  not  a  warm-looking  room. 
There  were  no  pictures;  but  the  furniture  was  old  and 
good.  The  table  at  which  they  sat  was  circular,  and  the 
light  above  caught  all  the  brilliances  of  glass  and  silver 
ware,  while  it  increased  the  cold  darkness  of  the  walls. 

"Do  you  know  these  people?"  he  next  asked. 

"Mrs.  Tallentyre  was  at  the  party.  Isn't  she  unhappy- 
looking?" 

"Perhaps  it's  only  her  manner."  Edgar  strove  to 
make  his  tone  light;  for  his  assumptions  were  otherwise. 

"No.  It's  real."  They  both  verified  the  impression. 
To  Edgar  it  appeared  that  Mrs.  Tallentyre  made  adroit 
use  of  cosmetics;  but  they  heightened  the  hard  glitter 
of  her  eyes,  and  the  markedly  anxious  vivacity  of  her 
manner.  Patricia  resumed:  "Her  husband  was  at  the 
party.  A  horrid  man." 

Well:  Edgar  wondered  what  she  was  doing  here  at 
all,  sitting  at  Monty's  left  hand  and  talking  to  Quellan 
as  if  she  had  something  to  gain  from  him.  Mrs.  Quel- 
lan, fortunately,  was  engaged  with  Monty.  Jacobs,  hav- 
ing served  the  soup,  was  at  the  sideboard  with  the 
decanters  under  his  eye. 

"I  wish  I'd  known  you  were  coming,"  Edgar  said, 
rather  lamely. 

"I  was  told  you'd  be  here."  Patricia  was  perhaps 
roguish.  "I've  been  feeling  that  I  must  have  been  rather 
silly.  ...  I  didn't  thank  you.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  no.  ...  I'd  been  thinking.  .  .  ."  Edgar  broke 
off. 

"I  met  .  .  .  Mr.  Rosenberg  at  Amy  Roberts's  the 
night  after  the  party,  and  he  asked  me  then.  Amy  Rob- 
erts was  at  school  with  me." 

"Is  she  .  .  .  some  sort  of  artist?  Forgive  me  .  .  ." 
He  saw  that  Patricia  was  laughing;  but  it  was  at  a  swift 
association  of  his  stumbling  enquiry  with  the  monstros- 


EDGAR  MOVES  85 

ity  which  stood  upon  Amy's  easel.  "I'm  altogether  ig- 
norant of  painting  and  reputations."  Edgar  could  not 
have  expressed  the  curious  happiness  which  pervaded 
him  at  the  sight  of  Patricia's  laughing  face.  The  new 
curve  of  her  cheeks  in  laughter,  and  the  poise  of  her 
head,  were  all  delicious  to  him.  Some  reflection  of  his 
feeling  must  have  appeared  in  his  eyes ;  for  she  sobered, 
almost  responsive  to  his  admiration. 

"I  don't  think  anybody  knows  her  work,"  explained 
Patricia.  Something  like  sorrow  transformed  her  face. 
She  was  recalling  Jack  and  his  miserable  confessions. 
"Mr.  Rosenberg  was  praising  a  picture  she's  now  paint- 
ing when  he  was  at  the  studio." 

"You  like  it  yourself?" 

Patricia  looked  frankly  back  at  him.  There  was 
something  in  Edgar  which  invited  the  truth.  She  felt 
strongly  tempted  to  tell  him  the  whole  story  of  Jack. 
How  strange  that  she  should  feel  at  once  so  intimately 
friendly ! 

"I  don't  know,"  she  admitted.  Then,  quite  astonished 
at  herself,  she  went  breathlessly  on:  "You  see,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  pictures;  and  I  want  to  seem  to 
know.  It  isn't  pretence  ...  or  not  altogether.  I  want 
to  understand.  But  Amy's  so  difficult,  and  you  can't 
ask  her  to  tell  you  why  something  that's  very  ugly,  from 
one  point  of  view,  is  really  good  from  another.  I  don't 
mean  that  I  like  sentimental  pictures.  I  hate  them.  But 
you  need  educating  to  appreciate  the  sort  of  things  Amy 
does." 

Unconsciously,  Patricia  had  drawn  the  attention  of 
Monty,  at  the  other  side  of  the  round  table.  He  had 
missed  the  opening  words  of  her  speech;  but  he  had 
heard  the  conclusion. 

"You  need  no  education,  Miss  Quin,"  he  cried.  "She 
simply  isn't  an  artist." 


86  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Patricia  flushed  deeply. 

"I  thought  you  were  .  .  .  were  praising  her  the  other 
evening,"  she  said,  indignant  and  breathless,  her  face 
alight  with  vivacity.  She  was  obviously  loyal,  obviously 
in  earnest,  and  in  such  company  demanding  to  be  teased. 

Monty's  wicked  smile  made  the  others  laugh. 

"One  must  be  polite,  of  course,"  he  said. 

"You  think  she's  bad  ?"  demanded  Patricia.  "I  mean, 
you  think  her  work  is  bad?" 

"Terrible."     They  laughed  again. 

"But  you  praised  her.     Why  do  you  let  her  go  on?" 

"One  lets  everybody  go  on.     You  can't  stop  a  run-  \ 
away  car  or  a  deluded  woman." 

Patricia  glanced  aside  at  Edgar. 

"You  think  that?"  she  asked  him  before  them  all. 

"It  would  hurt  her  to  be  told  the  truth.  She  wouldn't 
believe  it,  I  suppose,"  he  said.  "If  it  would  do  any 
good,  certainly  tell  her;  but  only  a  close  friend  whose 
judgment  she  valued  would  do  good." 

"Nobody,  my  dear  Mayne.  Amy  Roberts  couldn't 
understand."  This  was  from  Monty,  who  had  his  dark 
eyes  fixed  upon  Patricia's  every  change  of  expression 
with  a  concentration  not  to  be  misread. 

"She's  my  friend,  you  see,"  urged  Patricia.  "I  hate 
to  think  of  her  being  ..." 

"It'll  do  her  good  to  find  out  for  herself,"  said  Blanche 
Tallentyre,  with  a  snap. 

Across  the  table  Patricia  stared  a  little  at  Blanche. 

"I  wonder,"  she  answered,  ruthlessly.  "Aren't  there  \ 
f  quite  enough  unhappy  women  in  the  world,  who've  found  I 
(  out  too  late?" 

It  was  strange  that  this  was  the  first  sign  of  temper 
she  had  shown.  Blanche's  eyes,  as  filled  with  miserable 
sophistication  as  a  monkey's,  glittered  at  the  thrust.  Her 
haggard  cheeks  showed  no  sign  of  emotion;  but  her  lips 


EDGAR  MOVES  87 

were  tightly  pressed  together.  They  parted  to  make 
retort,  but  were  again  sealed.  Patricia  hardly  guessed, 
because  she  did  not  care,  that  she  had  made  an  enemy. 


VI 


While  Patricia  ignored  the  outcome  of  her  remark, 
Edgar  was  not  unaware  of  it.  He"  had  felt  the  electric 
silence  which  followed  the  speech,  had  seen  Blanche's 
glitter,  and  had  not  been  unprepared  for  the  look  of  slow 
and  comfortable  malicious  enjoyment  which  crossed 
Monty's  face.  To  Edgar  the  truth  was  apparent.  There 
was  danger  in  the  air.  Dalrymple  was  not  the  only  pos- 
sible danger.  Nor  Harry  Greenlees.  Edgar  was  quietly 
alarmed.  There  was  always  danger;  but  in  Patricia's 
case  it  was  acute.  She  had  done  herself  no  good  by  that 
instant's  admission  of  the  power  to  hurt.  She  had  roused 
Blanche's  animosity,  and  had  heightened  Monty's  inter- 
est in  herself.  With  what  assurance  he  could  master, 
Edgar  withdrew  her  from  the  general  circle  and  de- 
manded her  personal  interest. 

"I  have  a  sister  rather  younger  than  you,"  he  said. 
"I  should  like  you  to  meet  her." 

Patricia  turned  to  him,  her  darkening  obliterated. 

"Is  she  very  nice?     And  pretty?"  she  begged. 

"Both,"  asserted  Edgar.  "She's  very  spirited,  and 
slangy,  and  good-tempered.  She's  a  great  tease.  And 
she's  ckver." 

"And  alarming!"  cried  Patricia,  ruefully. 

"Then  I've  been  unjust  to  her.  She's  alarming,  be- 
cause she's  unexpected.  But  I  think  you'd  like  her." 

"Would  she  like  me?"  The  question  was  not  all  co- 
quettish. 

Edgar  smiled;  and  thereby  caused  Patricia  to  smile 
in  return. 


88  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"I  should  like  you  to  meet  her,"  he  said. 

He  was  not  wholly  absorbed,  even  now,  in  Patricia. 
He  could  see  Mrs.  Quellan,  growing  slightly  plump,  but 
struggling  against  middle-age  and  natural  gracelessness 
with  all  the  energy  of  those  whose  youth  has  been  lost 
in  work  and  anxiety.  He  could  see  her  husband,  thin- 
haired,  pale,  and  elaborately  cheerful  over  suppressed 
care.  He  could  see  Blanche,  so  obviously  what  she  was 
at  that  table,  aged  beyond  her  years,  her  spirit  tired  and 
malignant.  And  Monty,  full  of  well-being  and  will  and 
calculation,  relentless  and  immovable  in  his  design.  The 
one  fresh  and  unwarped  spirit  was  Patricia.  She  was 
youth  incarnate.  She  had  vitality  denied  to  all  the  oth- 
ers. And  she  was  helpless  through  inexperience.  She 
was  over-confident,  warm-hearted,  blind. 

Edgar  shrugged  slightly.  He  also  was  not  without 
will. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  quietly.  "You  must  certainly  meet 
Claudia." 

vii 

At  the  end  of  the  evening,  when  they  were  in  the  car 
together,  Patricia  said : 

"I  feel  sorry  for  Blanche  Tallentyre;  but  I  hate  her." 

"Well,"  replied  Edgar.  "Don't  you  think  she  may 
hate  you,  as  well?" 

Patricia  did  not  speak.  She  was  puzzled.  She 
thought  for  some  time  before  she  answered  him. 

"I  meant,  I  don't  think  Blanche  Tallentyre  can  ever 
really  have  been  .  .  ."  She  paused. 

"Young?  Oh,  I  think  ...  I  think  perhaps  you  were 
more  right  about  her  than  you  knew,"  said  Edgar. 

"I  found  myself  saying  that,"  naively  admitted  Pat- 
ricia. "I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  her  at  all." 

"No,"  answered  Edgar.     "That  was  the  devil  of  it. 


You  never  do  mean  to  hurt  or  to  do  wrong,  do  you?" 
He  laughed,  which  showed  Patricia  that  he  was  not  rind- 
ing fault  with  her.  "But  I  pity  anybody  who  tries  to 
make  you  do  right." 

"Well,  you  see,  I'm  .  .  .  I'm  Patricia  Quin,"  said 
Patricia,  as  though  that  were  an  all-sufficient  justification 
of  any  idiosyncrasy. 

"Quite  so."  Edgar  was  silent  in  his  turn.  Yet  he 
was  shot  through  and  through  with  an  impulse  either 
to  kiss  her  or  to  strike  her;  and  he  continued  methodi- 
cally to  drive  his  car  through  the  after-theatre  traffic 
as  though  no  such  possibilities  could  ever  have  occurred 
to  him.  Patricia,  wholly  unconscious  that  he  was  any- 
thing but  the  quiet  and  composed  creature  whom  she 
saw,  basked  in  her  delusion. 

"I  should  think  you  must  be  an  awfully  good  friend," 
she  impulsively  said. 

"Should  you?"  Edgar's  tone  was  expressionless. 
He  did  not  relax  his  attention  to  the  traffic. 

No  more  was  said  between  them  upon  that  subject. 


CHAPTER  SIX:  EVENING  WITH  HARRY 


HALF-PAST  SEVEN,  and  the  appointed  restaur- 
ant. A  revolving  door,  brilliant  lights,  warmth, 
a  general  air  of  opulence;  and  Patricia  found  herself  in 
a  small  entrance  hall,  at  one  side  of  which  attendants 
wrested  their  outer  garments  from  all  men.  She  had 
noticed  before  that  no  man  may  enter  a  restaurant  with 
his  hat  and  coat,  although  a  woman  may  sit  in  her  furs 
all  the  evening;  but  she  had  never  understood  the  mean- 
ing of  this  differentiation  between  the  sexes.  Before 
her,  several  people  were  sitting,  as  if  waiting  for  others ; 
and  in  a  fireplace  glowed  what  she  at  first  took  to  be  a 
real  fire.  A  sandy  young  man  was  perched  upon  the 
edge  of  a  chair,  gnawing  his  under-lip,  and  ever  and 
again  flirting  his  wrist  out  of  his  sleeve  as  he  checked 
the  lateness  of  a  friend.  Two  highly  refined  women 
talked  in  loud  voices  about  their  private  affairs,  extraor- 
dinarily self-conscious  in  face  of  the  sandy  young  man. 
They  broke  off  in  order  to  stare  at  Patricia  in  a  well- 
bred  manner,  and  resumed  their  conversation  in  a  slightly 
lower  key.  The  young  man  looked  again  at  his  wrist- 
watch. 

Patricia,  for  her  part,  was  frowning.  She  was  punct- 
ual, because  she  was  always  punctual.  And  she  expected 
any  host  to  be  punctual  also.  Harry's  lateness,  when  she 
had  arrived  so  eager,  chilled  her.  She  stood  hesitating, 
only  half -a  ware  of  those  others  who  were  in  the  small 
room  with  her.  She  had  imagined  something  very  dif- 
ferent— an  arrival,  and  Harry's  greeting  as  eager  as  her 

90 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  91 

own.  When  she  had  so  carefully  refrained  from  the 
coquetry  of  lateness  it  was  only  right  that  he  should 
have  done  the  same.  She  was  chagrined.  There  came 
back  into  her  mind — by  what  connection  she  could  not 
have  said,  since  she  was  only  half -conscious  of  her  own 
flying  sensations — memory  of  her  distaste  for  his  jokes 
about  personal  cleanliness. 

And  while  she  stood  there,  a  little  wavering,  all  her 
doubts  were  dispersed.  There  was  drawn  across  every 
unpleasant  thought  an  oblivion  so  complete  as  to  be  an- 
nihilating. Patricia  had  seen  the  half-filled  restaurant 
through  the  bevelled  glass  panes  of  another  door,  and 
had  been  aware  of  a  muffled  noise  of  conversation  and 
the  sounds  common  to  all  restaurants;  and  as  she  waited 
she  saw  a  quick  movement  of  black  and  white.  The 
door  was  burst  open.  The  black  and  white,  so  tall  as 
to  be  unmistakable,  gave  place  in  her  eyes  to  Harry's 
sparkling  countenance.  He  was  at  her  side,  as  full  of 
verve  as  he  had  ever  been  in  the  football  field,  delight- 
fully impetuous. 

"Hul-lo!"  he  cried  in  greeting.  "I  say,  I'm  so  sorry! 
I  was  just  ordering  the  dinner.  It's  only  just  half-past, 
isn't  it?" 

Patricia  was  electrically  happy.  The  life  in  her  re- 
sponded to  the  life  in  him.  They  were  two  vital  crea- 
tures, meeting  and  delighted;  and  as  she  went  with  him 
into  the  restaurant  those  diners  who  were  conveniently 
placed  were  all  moved  to  attentiveness  at  the  sight  of 
such  health  and  radiance.  With  her  spirits  mounting 
to  expectation  itself,  Patricia  suffered  the  waiters  to 
wedge  her  behind  a  small  table  which  Harry  had  re- 
served in  the  corner  of  the  shining  golden  restaurant. 
She  was  dazzled  by  a  thousand  lights  and  reflections,  her 
heart  dancing,  and  her  eyes  so  dangerously  tender  that 
she  instinctively  withheld  them  from  Harry's  inspection. 


92  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

ii 

"I  say!"  exclaimed  Harry.  "This  is  superb,  you 
know !"  He  was  looking  at  her  brilliant  dress,  upon 
which  nobody  had  thought  to  make  any  comment  on  the 
previous  evening.  "I've  never  seen  anything  to  beat  it." 
The  dress  was  quite  plain;  but  the  taste  which  had 
planned  it  was  manifest.  Both  the  material  from  which 
it  was  made  and  the  delicate  silk  with  which  its  adorn- 
ments had  been  fashioned  were  sun-coloured.  Every 
light  made  it  richer,  more  simple,  more  effective.  He 
was  full  of  admiration.  Patricia  was  rewarded.  She 
knew  now  that  she  had  thought  of  Harry  all  the  time 
she  had  been  employed  in  the  long  task  of  preparing  the 
dress.  She  made  no  reply.  He  resumed  impetuously: 
"I  could  have  murdered  that  girl  of  yours  the  other 
night.  Somehow  I'd  reckoned  on  finding  you  at  home." 

"I  was  at  Amy's." 

"Oh!"  He  was  astonished.  "I  almost  went  on  to 
her." 

"Monty  and  Jack  Penton  were  there,  too.  They  came 
in  after  dinner." 

Harry  frowned.  It  was  his  turn  to  do  so.  But  it 
was  not  a  very  serious  frown,  as  Patricia,  glancing  side- 
ways, could  see. 

"Oh,  the  old  fat  man!"  he  lightly  commented.  "I 
don't  know  Penton.  I  mean,  I've  met  him,  but  I  can't 
remember  him." 

"Did  you  go  and  see  Mr.  Mayne  ?" 

Harry  shook  his  head. 

"No.  I  wasn't  serious.  One  can't  push  one's  self." 
His  teeth  showed,  not  in  a  smile,  but  as  if  in  some  habit- 
ual expression.  "He's  not  my  sort." 

"He's  very  kind." 

Harry  laughed. 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  93~ 

"Exactly,"  he  said.  His  eyes  were  upon  her,  so  eager 
as  to  be  devouring.  "You  know,  I'm  most  awfully  glad 
you  could  come  to-night.  I've  got  all  sorts  of  things 
to  tell  you." 

"I  wish,"  murmured  Patricia,  "I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
why  men  have  to  leave  their  overcoats  at  the  door  of  a 
restaurant." 

His  voice  was  lowered.     His  eyes  roved  for  an  instant. 

"It's  so  that  they  can  cut  a  figure,"  he  explained.  "A 
man  in  his  overcoat — oh,  a  sorry  sight.  A  woman — it's 
so  different.  She's  got  to  keep  her  shoulders  warm. 
She's  got  to  show  her  furs  to  everybody.  By  the  way, 
where  are  yours?" 

Patricia  regretfully  shook  her  head. 

"You  have  to  imagine  them,"  she  ventured. 

"They're  the  finest  here,"  Harry  assured  her.  "It's  all 
simply  a  question  of  decoration.  And  also,  no  doubt, 
of  tips.  You  see,  a  woman  is  entertained." 

"I  never  understand  why  that  is,"  cried  Patricia.  "I'd 
far  rather  always  pay  for  myself.  I  do,  as  a  rule." 

"Not  with  me,"  said  Harry,  with  a  sudden  firmness 
which  she  admired.  "You  don't  want  to  with  me,  do 
you?"  He  was  confident;  but  he  spoke  truly.  She  had 
no  will  to  flout  him. 

A  shyness  fell  upon  them.  They  ate  for  a  moment 
in  silence.  After  all,  they  did  not  know  each  other  very 
well;  and  it  may  have  occurred  to  each  that  part  of  the 
lightness  of  the  conversation  was  due  to  a  kind  of  de- 
fiance of  constraint.  Their  moods,  however,  were  in 
harmony;  as  was  testified  by  the  exchanged  smile  which 
succeeded  the  silence. 

"Are  you  a  good  dancer?"  demanded  Patricia.  Harry 
laughed  again. 

"I  didn't  bring  my  testimonials,"  he  answered.  "Did 
you?" 


94  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"I  brought  my  shoes."  She  was  quite  ready  for  him. 
"If  you're  a  bad  dancer  I  shall  be  shocked." 

"You  needn't  worry,"  said  Harry,  calmly.  "The 
question  is,  can  you  dance?" 

Patricia  thought :  How  splendid !  How  splendid ! 
Her  glance  was  roguish  and  evasive,  so  perfect  did  the 
understanding  between  them  appear  to  be.  Aloud,  she 
very  demurely  responded : 

"We'd  better  both  hope  for  the  best,  hadn't  we  ?  It's 
no  good  meeting  trouble  half-way." 

iii 

They  found  themselves  autobiographical  in  a  very 
short  time.  Patricia  was  made  to  give  a  sketch  of  Uncle 
Roly  and  others;  and  Harry  detailed  some  of  the  more 
amusing  episodes  of  his  youth.  He  had  been  born  in 
the  country,  it  seemed,  and  had  lived  in  the  country  until 
he  was  sent  away  to  school.  Patricia  rejoiced.  Some 
of  her  own  early  memories  were  of  the  country,  and 
with  her  fancy  quickened  by  the  occasion  she  followed 
Harry's  narrative  with  what  she  felt  sure  he  must  recog- 
nise as  perfect  understanding.  He  pictured  the  district 
in  which  he  had  lived,  making  little  strokes  in  the  table- 
cloth with  his  dessert  knife  in  order  to  give  her  a  rough 
notion  of  the  scenes  amid  which  he  had  played. 

"That's  the  hut,"  he  said.  "The  ditch  was  along 
here.  Trees,  you  know  .  .  .  and  the  road  here.  That 
hut  was  a  real  treasure.  One  never  gets  tired  of  that 
sort  of  place.  It  suits  every  game,  and  every  weather. 
We  slept  there  sometimes  in  the  summer,  in  hammocks 
slung  across.  It's  a  queer  thing  to  sleep  out  of  doors 
in  the  midst  of  all  the  night  noises." 

"Is  it  alarming?"  asked  Patricia.  She  was  thinking 
of  things  inexplicable. 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  95 

Harry's  eyes  opened.     He  did  not  understand  her. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said.  "I  only  meant,  queer  to  listen  to 
the  jolly  old  owls,  and  things." 

"Had  you  got  a  river  near  you?"  She  resented  his 
misunderstanding;  but  for  an  instant  only. 

"You  mean,  boating?  No,  not  near.  There  were 
streams,  and  bits  of  water;  but  nothing  big  enough  for 
boating.  We  used  to  bathe.  Jove,  they  were  days !  Of 
course,  I  get  some  of  the  old  pleasures  now  by  tramping. 
I  started  it  before  the  war,  and  went  back  to  it  directly 
I  got  out  of  uniform.  There's  nothing  to  beat  the  road, 
if  one  doesn't  mind  roughing  it.  You  go  along  and 
along,  and  haven't  anything  to  tie  you  to  a  place  or  a  bed. 
You  get  meals  where  you  can,  and  tumble  in  for  a  rest 
where  you  can,  and  come  home  when  you  like,  and  go 
where  you  like.  Even  now  it's  quite  decent,  so  long  as 
your  passport  is  all  right  and  you  don't  mind  taking 
what  you  can  get." 

"And  when  you  were  a  little  boy,  were  you  naughty  ?" 

"Yes.     And  were  you  a  naughty  little  girl?" 

"No.     I  was  a  good  little  girl." 

"What,  never  naughty?"  His  face  was  full  of  in- 
credulity. 

And  so  the  meal  progressed,  and  the  friendship  was 
enhanced  by  every  piece  of  observation  which  either  of 
them  directed  at  the  other.  Seen  close  at  hand,  as  Pat- 
ricia knew  already,  Harry  had  all  the  attractiveness 
which  belongs  to  good  health  and  physical  vigour.  All 
his  movements  were  definite,  his  eyes  were  clear  and  his 
glances  assured.  His  hair  was  crisp,  his  colour  good, 
his  frame  large  and  impressively  well-knit.  He  had 
played  forward  for  the  Harlequins,  in  a  pack  that  was 
both  heavy  and  quick,  a  team  that  owed  its  triumphs 
not  only  to  great  generalship  but  also  to  the  speedy 
adroitness  of  its  individual  members.  And  in  spite  of 


96  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

his  years  Harry  was  still  a  man  of  sure  and  rapid  action. 
At  all  points  he  charmed  Patricia. 

Patricia  charmed  him  no  less.  That  which  in  him 
was  quick  and  vivid  found  its  counterpart  in  her.  If 
they  had  had  nothing  intellectually  in  common,  still  their 
proximity  would  have  brought  happiness  to  both.  But 
in  addition  Patricia  was  nimble  of  wit,  and  intrigued 
Harry's  interest  in  that  respect  also.  She  was  as  quick 
as  he  was,  and  sometimes  she  was  quicker  than  he. 
Harry  could  see  the  play  of  expression  upon  her  face 
during  the  whole  time  that  he  was  talking,  and  the  play 
showed  that  she  had  no  mental  inertia,  and  no  single  in- 
ability to  comprehend  the  meaning  of  all  he  said.  Harry 
was  quite  used  to  the  skill  with  which  a  more  ignorant 
girl  would  manifest  understanding  of  which  she  was  in- 
capable. He  knew  that  in  Patricia's  case  it  was  the  real 
thing.  So  speaking  a  face  could  not  deceive.  And  per- 
haps he  did  moreover  "receive  fair  speechless  messages" 
which  increased  his  ardour  and  his  already  dominating 
confidence.  He  was  very  happy.  They  both  were  very 
happy,  and  their  happiness  added  lustre  to  the  beauty  of 
both. 


IV 


"Where  are  we  going  after  dinner?"  Patricia  de- 
manded suddenly.  She  had  declined  a  liqueur,  and  was 
finishing  her  last  cigarette.  Already  the  restaurant  was 
half -empty  of  those  diners  who  had  proceeded  to  thea- 
tres. The  remainder  sat  on,  talking.  She  could  see 
the  two  highly  bred  women  of  the  lounge  in  the  company 
of  two  glossy-haired  men  in  evening  dress.  Neither 
man,  she  recognised  with  satisfaction,  could  compare 
with  her  own  escort.  And  so  the  manner  of  her  inquiry 
had  been  complaisant  as  well  as  calm. 

"It's   for  you."     Harry  set  down  his  liqueur  glass. 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  97 

"The  Queens  ford's  the  more  genteel ;  and  there's  a  better 
band  at  Topping's.  Floor's  about  the  same  at  both. 
The  Queensford's  larger." 

"Is  Topping's  low?"  she  sparkled.     "Let's  be  low." 

"Right."     He  called  the  waiter. 

"If  it's  not  far,  let's  walk  there,"  said  Patricia.  "It's 
such  a  beautiful  night." 

The  mirror  at  her  side  gave  back  a  reflection  of  what 
she  knew  to  be  an  excited  and  even  slightly  flushed  face. 
But  she  could  not  fail  to  be  charmed  by  her  own  pretti- 
ness  as  she  rose  and  went  towards  the  door  with  Harry. 
The  refined  ladies  and  their  escorts  abandoned  conversa- 
tion as  Patricia  passed,  which  gave  her  further  satis- 
faction. She  knew  that  they  could  none  of  them  with- 
hold curiosity  and  perhaps  admiration.  Well,  wasn't 
that  quite  pleasant  to  Patricia?  She  had  no  fault  to 
find  with  her  situation. 

They  were  in  the  street,  and  in  the  piercing  whiteness 
of  electric  light.  The  air  was  very  crisp,  and  she  wel- 
comed its  cold  touch  upon  her  cheeks.  There  were 
taxicabs  and  newspaper  sellers  and  loitering  people;  and 
a  huge  omnibus  went  heavily  by.  Crowds  were  thinner 
than  they  had  been  early  in  the  evening,  but  every  face 
was  whitened  by  the  light,  bleached  to  the  colourless 
gravity  of  a  kinema  film.  Above,  very  distant  in  the 
most  lovely  of  blue  night  skies,  was  the  moon,  silver  to 
the  eye,  very  pure  and  remote.  Patricia  looked  up  at 
the  moon,  smiling  her  love  for  it,  so  much  did  that  silent 
shape  draw  wonder  from  her  heart;  and  in  doing  this 
she  unconsciously  moved  into  Harry's  path.  He  took 
her  arm  for  an  instant's  guidance,  and,  as  they  ap- 
proached the  crossing  of  Piccadilly,  he  retained  his  hold. 
It  was  all  nothing,  and  she  was  free  again  when  they 
reached  the  other  side  of  the  street;  but  the  protection 
had  been  so  natural  that  it  gave  her  pleasure.  She 


98  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

walked  by  Harry's  side  with  a  thousand  beautiful  little 
memories  and  emotions  and  imaginings  making  what 
she  knew  to  be  happiness  in  her  heart. 

And  then  they  were  at  Topping's;  and  she  could  hear 
the  band.  Other  young  people  stood  about  on  the  broad 
stairs — fluffy-haired  girls  and  well-groomed  young  men, 
all  with  that  curious  excited  expression  in  their  eyes 
which  went  with  late  hours  and  noise  and  nervous  ex- 
haustion. Patricia  felt  her  feet  begin  to  catch  the 
strongly  marked  rhythm,  and  went  quickly  to  change  her 
shoes  and  leave  her  coat.  She  was  out  again  upon  the 
stairs  before  Harry  had  returned;  and  stood  there  lis- 
tening, her  breast  rising  and  falling  rather  fast,  a  piquant 
figure,  both  light  and  graceful,  so  fresh  in  that  brilliant 
light  that  she  drew  the  attention  of  all  who  were  near. 

She  was  still  waiting  when  two  people  came  down  the 
stairs  from  the  street  towards  her,  both  cloaked  and 
muffled  against  the  cold.  For  an  instant  she  did  not 
recognise  them;  but  as  Monty  took  off  his  hat  and 
moved  away  to  the  men's  cloak-room  Patricia  was  re- 
called to  memory  with  a  start.  Evidently  Monty  had 
not  seen  her.  Swiftly  she  looked  at  the  on-coming  fig- 
ure of  his  companion.  A  cold  greeting  was  exchanged, 
surprise  rather  than  pleasure  being  obviously  the  emotion 
upon  both  sides.  Patricia  followed  the  newcomer  with 
her  eyes  until  she  was  hidden ;  and  her  brain  was  engaged 
with  a  problem. 

Monty.  Monty  .  .  .  and  Blanche  Tallentyre.  How 
strange. 


Patricia  was  not  allowed  further  time  to  ponder  this 
singular  meeting,  for  Harry  was  once  again  at  her  elbow. 
He  had  not  seen  Monty,  but  was  eager  to  be  dancing. 
They  descended  the  remaining  stairs.  There  was  a  good 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  99 

deal  of  noise,  not  only  from  the  band,  but  from  the 
dancers  and,  even  more,  from  those  who  were  still  din- 
ing in  that  part  of  the  very  large  room  which  was  set 
apart  for  the  purpose.  Patricia  could  see  that  girls  and 
men  were  at  many  of  the  small  tables,  smoking  and 
drinking,  and  that  it  was  the  custom  for  them  to  leave 
their  places  in  order  to  dance  and  to  resume  them  when 
the  music  stopped.  She  had  a  few  moments  to  exam- 
ine the  throng ;  for  exactly  at  the  instant  of  their  arrival 
the  band  quickened  its  pace  for  the  end  of  the  dance 
which  she  had  heard  in  progress.  Couples  dispersed, 
and  there  was  a  crowded  and  dishevelled  scene  which 
took  her  breath  away.  All  sorts  of  girls  in  all  sorts  of 
dresses  and  coiffures  filled  her  eyes;  all  sorts  of — no, 
there  was  not  such  variety  in  the  young  men.  They 
did  not  surprise  her,  for  they  seemed  to  be  men  such  as 
she  might  have  known  all  her  life.  The  uniformity  of 
costume,  also,  made  many  of  them  indistinguishable. 
Everywhere  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  excitement  such 
as  she  herself  was  feeling.  She  was  dazzled  and  de- 
lighted. A  new  ichor  seemed  to  run  in  her  veins.  It 
was  some  weeks  since  she  had  danced,  and  this  place 
was  so  much  more  attractive  than  the  suburban  halls 
and  rooms  she  had  known  that  the  surroundings  ap- 
peared to  Patricia  ideal.  For  a  moment  she  was  almost 
timid  in  the  face  of  such  terrific  energy,  such  fizz  and 
glitter;  but  as  soon  as  the  band  began  to  blare  out  a 
favourite  fox-trot  Patricia  lost  all  timidity.  New  elas- 
ticity ran  through  her  body :  she  was  thrilling  to  the 
finger-tips.  She  was  aware  of  Harry's  hands — one 
clasping  her  own,  the  other  lightly  and  firmly  at  her 
waist;  of  the  ease  of  his  step,  the  certainty  of  his  com- 
mand; and  she  yielded  herself  completely  to  the  dance. 
"It's  all  right,"  Harry  murmured  in  Patricia's  ear. 
"Perfect.  Knew  it  would  be." 


100  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

He  was  able  at  last  to  hold  Patricia  within  his  arm, 
to  be  conscious  of  her  dangerously  charming  proximity, 
to  speak  close  to  her  radiant  eyes,  to  employ  the  tone  and 
glance  which  could  no  longer  mar  or  frighten  away  the 
prospect  of  this  manoeuvred  evening.  He  was  in  a  fa- 
miliar land,  dealing  with  familiar  emotions  and  oppor- 
tunities, supremely  content. 

Patricia's  face  lighted  up  with  a  mischievous  and 
unsuspecting  smile.  She  could  not  read  his  more 
sophisticated  satisfaction,  but  she  was  wholly  spirited 
in  her  own. 

"You're  not  such  a  bad  dancer,"  she  impudently  in- 
formed him.  "Considering." 


VI 

A  slightly  increased  pressure  of  the  hand  was  Harry's 
only  response.  He  had  rapidly  fallen  into  that  mood 
of  enjoyment  which  gave  his  nature  its  fullest  play. 
His  energy  was  being  employed;  he  was  being  charmed 
and  gratified;  his  senses  were  all  being  titillated.  Half  a 
hundred  women  would  have  given  him  most  of  his  pres- 
ent pleasure,  but  the  novelty  no  less  than  the  beauty  of 
Patricia  supplied  just  that  added  spice  which  any  in- 
dulged appetite  presently  demands  in  its  exercise. 

They  danced  three  times,  and  then  sat  down,  watching 
the  other  dancers  and  comparing  their  styles.  Here 
they  could  see  a  pair  pedantically  apart,  correctness  it- 
self;  there  a  couple  buried  in  each  other,  the  young  man's 
face  lost  to  view  in  his  partner's  hair.  Every  degree 
of  absorption  in  the  dance  or  in  physical  sensation  was 
to  be  observed.  The  one  thing  absent  from  all  faces 
was  love ;  but  since  Harry  and  Patricia  were  not  looking 
for  this  rare  emotion  in  others  they  did  not  observe  its 
absence. 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  101 

Patricia  was  the  first  to  catch  sight  of  Monty,  for 
whose  figure  she  had  been  searching  in  the  crowd.  As 
she  could  have  foretold,  he  was  dancing  perfectly. 
Blanche  was  rather  stiff,  she  was  pleased  to  notice. 
Monty's  expression  was  that  of  one  who  was  bored :  a 
line  of  white  showed  beneath  the  iris  of  his  eyes.  His 
manner  was  almost  too  easy,  as  though  his  thoughts 
were  engaged  otherwise  than  with  his  partner  or  the 
dance.  Nevertheless,  he  was  obviously  at  home.  His 
clothes  fitted  and  suited  him.  He  was  far  beyond  most 
of  his  neighbours  in  appearance;  for  in  too  many  of 
these  Patricia  cruelly  discerned  mediocrity.  She  shook 
her  head  at  the  spectacle  of  so  much  that  was  to  her 
fresh  eye  uninspired  and  uninspiring. 

"You  see  Monty?"  she  said  to  Harry. 

He  was  about  to  answer  when  a  swarm  of  people 
seemed  to  rise  up  about  them.  All  greeted  Harry.  It 
was  a  large  party,  newly  arrived,  all  the  members  of 
which  appeared  to  be  his  friends.  Young  men,  some  of 
them  fair,  with  toothbrush  moustaches  and  curly  hair, 
some  of  them  dark  and  clean-shaven  and  very  like  Jack 
Penton  in  appearance ;  young  women  of  all  colours  and 
all  varieties  of  noisiness,  clamoured  for  his  attention. 
All  the  young  men  were  combed  and  brushed  to  resemble 
tailors'  dummies;  all  the  young  women  were  freshly 
powdered  and  freshly  adorned  with  rouge  and  bella- 
donna and  those  aids  to  lashes  and  brows  and  hair  which 
heighten  the  attractiveness  of  women  already  attractive. 
Patricia  listened  laughingly  while  each  was  introduced 
to  her;  but  she  heard  none  of  their  names,  and  only  knew 
that  she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  lively  party.  She  could 
not  analyse  them,  although  she  tried  to  do  so  in  a  hurry; 
and  so  she  accepted  them  simply  as  Harry's  perhaps 
ever  so  slightly  peculiar  friends.  Only  when  it  be- 
came clear  that  they  proposed  to  settle  in  this  place  and 


102  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

spoil  her  evening  with  Harry  did  Patricia  take  alarm. 
She  was  moving  very  quietly,  preparing  for  the  first 
notes  of  the  next  dance,  when  she  saw  the  liveliest  of 
the  girls — a  brunette  who  was  beautiful  enough  to  be 
dangerous,  and  obviously  adept  at  this  practice — seize 
Harry,  pull  him  in  step  towards  the  dancing  space,  and 
thus  forcibly  kidnap  him. 

"Well!"  ejaculated  Patricia,  wholly  to  herself.  Harry 
cast  a  laughing,  appealing  glance  at  her.  He  was  cap- 
tured, and  by  a  ruthless  and  rather  boisterous  victor. 
Patricia  followed  the  two  indignantly  with  her  eyes. 
Swift  anger  gripped  her.  She  had  never  been  so  angry 
as  at  this  trifling  folly.  It  was  a  direct  challenge  to  her. 
It  was  a  thing  she  could  not  have  done  herself — this 
impudent  appropriation  of  a  man  who  was  confessedly 
present  as  the  escort  of  another  girl.  She  disliked  the 
interloper.  She  was  instantly  suspicious  of  her.  Al- 
though impulsive  herself,  Patricia  had  no  interest  in  the 
impulsiveness  of  others,  especially  if  the  others  were 
girls.  Her  anger  blazed  silently  for  a  full  minute. 
Slowly  it  diminished.  She  found  herself  almost  de- 
serted by  the  party  of  intruders,  all  of  whom,  with  great 
freedom  of  gesture,  were  now  dancing.  Only  one  rue- 
ful young  man  remained ;  a  young  man  with  unoccupied 
blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair,  who  looked  painfully  surprised 
at  everything,  and  was  in  appearance  so  almost  exces- 
sively juvenile  as  to  make  Patricia  suppose  him  fresh 
from  school. 

"Er  .  .  ."  said  the  young  man,  with  great  feebleness 
of  intellect. 

"Yes!"  cried  Patricia.  "I  never  saw  anything  like 
it.  It's  shameful.  It's  cradle-snatching.  Was  she 
your  partner?  Never  mind;  come  along!"  She  swept 
him  into  the  arena,  as  indomitably  unmoved  in  appear- 
ance as  she  could  have  desired.  Though  her  heart  was 


WITH  HARRY  103 

burning,  Patricia's  pride  was  beyond  reproach.     Never- 
theless, she  was  desperately  wounded. 


vn 

She  was  still  aching  from  the  injury  to  her  pride  when 
the  dance  came  to  an  end.  By  that  time  the  anonymous 
young  man  with  the  sheep-like  blue  eyes  had  exchanged 
an  expression  of  helpiless  vacancy  for  one  of  helpless 
admiration.  Once,  during  the  dance,  he  had  stam- 
mered :  "I  ...  I  say,  .  .  .  you  do  .  .  .  d-dance  well" ; 
but  Patricia  had  ignored  his  speech.  She  could 
not  compliment  him  in  return.  Her  one  curiosity  was 
to  know  the  name  of  the  girl  who  had  stolen  Harry  from 
her.  Several  times  during  the  dance  they  had  encoun- 
tered the  other  pair;  and  Patricia  had  not  failed  to  ob- 
serve the  voluptuous  abandonment  of  the  girl  to  a  posture 
more  nearly  approaching  immodesty  than  anything  to 
be  seen  elsewhere. 

"What  was  that  girl's  name?"  she  asked,  as  the  young 
man  proudly  led  her  back. 

"Bella?"  he  queried.  "That's  .  .  .  that's  Bella  Ver- 
reker.  That's  not  her  name  really:  it's  her  stage 
name." 

Stage!  Generations  of  puritanism  caused  a  shiver  to 
run  through  Patricia.  She  was  instantly  apprehensive. 
Bella  was  dangerous  to  Harry,  to  the  evening,  to  ... 
her  own  happiness.  Stricken  with  horror  as  she  was. 
Patricia's  distress  was  poignant.  She  was  really  afraid. 
This  was  something  beyond  her  depth  and  her  under- 
standing. Her  mood  of  fear  was  thereafter  succeeded 
by  one  in  which  this  curbing  of  spontaneous  enjoyment 
was  resented  by  her  vanity.  She  was  elaborately  in- 
different. 

At  that  moment  they  met  Monty,  who  had  come  to- 


104.  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

wards  her  through  the  pressing  crowd,  with  a  politeness 
oriental!  in  its  quality,  in  its  subtly  encroaching  famil- 
iarity towards  herself. 

"Hullo!"  cried  Patricia,  in  joyous  greeting.  She  was 
all  unconscious  of  anything  but  her  own  feelings.  At 
this  juncture  the  appearance  of  Monty  was  welcome, 
not  for  her  interest  in  him,  but  for  his  opportuneness  as  a 
diversion.  "I  caught  sight  of  you  before." 

"Come  and  dance,"  demanded  Monty. 

"Where's  .  .  .  Mrs.  Tallentyre?" 

"Resting,  and  talking  to  a  friend." 

Patricia's  teeth  were  firmly  together.  That  impetu- 
ous mouth  had  become  hard.  Monty  could  read  her  as 
though  she  had  spoken  aloud.  He  knew  she  had  been 
hurt,  that  she  was  in  reaction.  He  knew  that  he  had 
presented  himself  to  Patricia  as  an  opportunity.  She 
was  tempted;  she  was  falling.  He  smiled  comfortably. 

"No  you  don't,  Monty!"  came  Harry's  voice:  "No 
bagging  my  partner !" 

There  was  a  singular  little  scene;  the  three  of  them 
standing  together,  all  ruffled  and  all  good-humouredly 
smiling.  Monty  was  not  as  tall  as  Harry,  who  accord- 
ingly towered  over  both  of  the  others.  He  was  very  much 
the  well-groomed  man  of  the  world  in  this  place,  and  yet 
his  smile  was  faintly  ugly.  It  had  changed  within  an 
instant,  had  deepened  and  become  set.  Not  a  wrinkle 
showed  upon  his  unreadable  face.  Harry's  cheerful 
grin,  which  displayed  all  his  big  white  teeth,  held  com- 
bativeness.  Patricia,  thoroughly  exasperated  at  the  gen- 
eral bad  manners,  and  not  least  at  her  own  impulse  to 
naughtiness,  resented  the  feeling  that  she  was  a  mere 
partner  to  be  claimed  by  either.  She  was  both  exasper- 
ated and  wisely  alarmed. 

"I  saw  you  dancing  with  Bella,"  suavely  explained 
Monty. 


EVENING  WITH  HARRY  105 

"She's  with  a  party  here  .  .  ."  Harry  was  grim. 
There  was  definite  conflict  between  the  two  men,  spoil- 
ing, but  controlled,  so  that  while  all  three  of  them  knew 
the  conflict  to  be  there  no  others  near  by  could  have 
guessed  its  presence.  "But  Patricia's  with  me." 

Something — she  did  not  realise  what  it  was — cleared 
Patricia's  vision.  It  was  necessary  that  she  should  act 
with  decision.  She  turned  to  Harry,  no  longer  ill-tem- 
pered, but  paler  and  almost  deliberately  patient  in  her 
manner  to  him. 

"I'll  dance  once  with  Monty,"  she  said.  "And  then 
come  back  to  you." 

And  as  the  music  began,  she  fell  into  step  with  Monty, 
leaving  Harry  chagrined  and  reddening.  There  was 
still  a  little  temper  in  her  emotion ;  but  her  chief  thought 
as  she  danced  was:  "Two  great  babies!" 

Patricia  might  have  considered  herself  a  third;  but 
she  did  not  do  this. 

viii 

During  the  rest  of  the  evening  the  relation  between 
Harry  and  Patricia,  although  it  was  gay  and  friendly, 
never  quite  recovered  the  fluency  it  had  attained  during 
dinner.  They  danced  together;  but  Patricia,  warned  by 
what  she  had  seen,  shunned  anything  more  cordial  than 
the  merest  partnership  in  the  dance.  Harry  tried  to 
hold  her  more  closely,  but  he  found  that  it  was  at  the 
cost  of  enjoyable  dancing,  and  he  therefore  abandoned 
the  attempt.  He  discovered  that  Patricia,  while  she  was 
as  agreeable  as  ever,  had  no  intention  of  letting  him 
make  love  to  her.  It  was  contrary  to  his  practice  to 
explain  or  to  apologise,  and  he  did  not  refer  to  Bella. 
Patricia,  upon  her  side,  showed  no  disposition  to  forsake 
or  despise  the  interloping  party;  and  so  gradually  the 
two  of  them  drifted  apart.  She  danced  with  two  or 


106  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

three  of  the  other  men,  and  he  with  Bella  and  another 
girl.  The  noise  of  the  room,  and  the  crowd  of  people, 
seemed  to  increase.  It  became  late.  The  party  showed 
signs  of  an  inclination  for  the  evening's  end.  Drinks 
had  long  been  done  with ;  new  arrivals,  fresher  and  more 
eager  than  those  who  had  been  dancing  for  some  time, 
took  the  floor.  The  evening  was  collapsing.  Quite 
definitely  it  was  petering  out.  At  a  quarter-to-twelve 
there  was  a  signal  for  dosing  the  place;  and  then,  as 
part  of  a  general  shoal  of  departing  merry-makers,  a 
very  sleepy  party  pressed  out  into  the  night  air.  Monty 
and  Blanche  had  left  long  before. 

As  they  thus  emerged,  Patricia,  in  evading  Harry's 
attempt  at  segregation,  found  herself  with  two  of  the 
other  girls,  who  both  said  they  lived  at  Chelsea.  The 
journey  homeward  was  therefore  made  in  a  crowd,  which 
separated  Harry  and  Patricia.  They  all  came  to  the 
end  of  the  street  in  which  Patricia  lived,  and  then  to  the 
house  itself;  so  that  she  was  not  for  an  instant  alone 
with  Harry.  Even  at  the  parting,  he  was  but  the  last 
of  the  group  to  bid  farewell,  and  she  walked  slowly  up- 
stairs to  her  rooms  with  cheery  voices  still  ringing  in 
her  ears. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN:  SECOND  EVENING 


FROM  that  evening  Patricia  had  no  lack  of  compan- 
ionship. She  had  fallen  into  a  whole  group  of 
new  friends  and  new  Christian  names.  There  was  no 
end  to  the  Dorises,  the  Bills,  the  Owens,  the  Hildas,  and 
the  Normans  whom  she  met  at  every  dance  and  every 
party.  She  sat  on  floors  and  talked  with  assurance;  she 
danced  with  a  score  of  men.  During  the  daytime  she 
did  more  dress-making  than  bread-work.  In  the  eve- 
nings, carried  away  by  the  sense  of  new  experience  and 
new  power,  she  added  a  veneer  of  alluring  sophistication 
to  her  nature.  Never  had  the  face  of  life  been  so 
quickly  altered. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  Patricia  that  these  young  men 
and  women  whom  she  now  so  constantly  met  belonged 
to  a  different  species  from  herself.  She  had  been 
brought  up  in  a  suburban  atmosphere  in  which  anything 
not  perfectly  respectable  was  done  in  secret.  It  had 
been  a  disagreeable  atmosphere  to  her,  because  she  was 
C*both  impetuous  and  innocent,  a  combination  of  charac- 
^  teristics  which  always  raises  trouble  for  the  owner.  Re- 
garding herself  as  a  free  spirit,  she  had  received  rebuffs 
from  those  more  strict;  and  her  candour  had  given  rise 
to  wrong  impressions  about  herself  in  her  own  mind  as 
well  as  in  the  minds  of  others.  She  had  supposed  that 
Patricia  alone  was  in  a  state  of  rebellion  against  subur- 
ban laws.  She  had  even  exaggerated  her  own  impor- 
tance as  a  rebel.  Now  she  found  that  these  laws  did 
not  apply;  and  that  in  fact  defiance  of  them  was  unnec- 

107 


108  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

essary.  The  young  people  of  her  fresh  pleasure  did 
not  defy:  they  had  forgotten.  She  became  aware  of  a 
whole  new  code.  A  free  spirit  she  still  felt  herself; 
but  one  in  a  world  of  free  spirits.  Along  with  the  ex- 
aggerated sense  of  her  own  personality  common  to  clever 
girls  of  our  day  she  had  also  the  good  sense  to  realise 
the  improvement  in  her  own  circumstances.  Patricia 
rejoiced.  She  delighted  in  the  feeling  of  wide  acquaint- 
ance, of  new  liberty.  It  pleased  her  to  meet  cordial 
young  people  who  were  no  dleverer  and  no  more  con- 
cerned with  strait-laced  morals  than  herself  and  whom 
she  did  not  despise.  She  began  at  last  to  feel  at  home. 
They  were  young,  free-and-easy,  less  mentally  ingenious 
than  she  was,  admiring,  unaffected.  It  was  as  though 
she-  belonged  to  the  same  family  as  themselves,  but  was 
of  a  naturally  brighter  pilumage.  Her  vanity  was  sensi- 
bly fortified. 

And  through  all  this  new  experimenting  with  her  own 
strength  there  ran  for  Patricia  something  more  precious 
still.  The  added  significance  which  had  been  given  to 
her  days  was  due  only  in  small  part  to  this  increased 
circle.  The  friends  she  made  were  a  background;  they 
filled  in  the  picture;  but  no  more.  Every  day  was  col- 
oured and  moulded  for  Patricia  by  happiness,  the  happi- 
ness of  young  half -love.  It  warmed  her  heart  through 
the  gloomy  winter  days;  made  her  laugh,  sparkle,  sigh, 
with  a  new  tenderness;  and  gave  fresh  life  to  all  her 
perceptions  and  understandings.  Occasionally  she  even 
glimpsed  her  own  happiness,  when  the  excitement  of  it 
was  past  and  she  sat  more  thoughtfully  alone.  And 
then  the  precariousness  of  it,  the  sense  of  insecurity,  of 
withheld  culmination,  gave  to  the  vision  a  fresh  colour 
and  zest  of  danger. 

That  one  evening:  with  Harrv,  which  had  begun  so 
splendidly  and  ended  in  such  dissonance,  was  but  the 


SECOND  EVENING  109 

beginning.  The  mixed  crowd  of  people  had  resolved 
itself  into  two  separate  portions — the  theatrical  and  the 
non-theatrical;  and  even  the  theatrical  portion  proved 
shortly  to  be  a  welcoming  band.  Bella  Verreker  was 
appearing  in  musical  comedy,  and  she  did  not  again 
encroach.  Only  the  less  aggressive  girls  continued  to 
join  the  parties ;  and  Patricia  found  that  several  of  these, 
and  some  of  the  young  men,  were  so  far  without  regular 
paying  engagements.  They  appeared  in  private  or  semi- 
private  shows,  for  experience  and  reputation;  and  she 
had  the  first  consciousness  of  forming  a  part  of  her  gen- 
eration. All  were  lively  people  to  know  slightly,  and 
the  non-theatricals,  some  of  whom  were  Civil  Servants 
and  others  of  moderately  independent  means  or  of  vari- 
ous artistic  or  semi-artistic  occupations,  were  immense 
talkers  and  eager,  but  not  expert,  dancers.  Beside  them 
all,  Harry  was  as  distinguished  in  his  way  as  was 
Patricia  in  hers.  They  were  both  welcomed,  even 
sought. 

Patricia  felt  herself  alive  at  last.  Letters  came  for 
her  in  the  mornings  and  at  night.  Harry  called  for  her. 
She  herself  gave  a  little  party  in  her  small  rooms  at  the 
top  of  the  house.  It  was  fun  to  have  seven  or  eight  guests 
sitting  with  difficulty  in  the  crowded  space,  and  talking 
to  their  hearts'  content.  But  more  than  that  she  enjoyed 
going  to  yet  larger  parties  in  more  capacious  studios, 
where  the  floor  was  sometimes  cleared  for  impromptu 
dancing,  where  there  was  dressing-up,  and  where  the 
games  made  them  all  laugh  and  talk  nonsense  together. 
She  loved  to  swing  into  one  of  the  brasseries  of  West 
End  restaurants,  to  meet  other  talkative  youngsters,  to 
smoke  cigarettes  and  sip  little  strange  drinks.  It  made 
her  feel  very  bold  and  modern  and  authoritative.  And 
most  of  all  did  she  enjoy  the  evenings  which  she  and 
Harry  spent  together,  dining  at  Paggolino's  or  some 


110  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

smaller  Italian  restaurant,  and  going  together  to  a  thea- 
tre or  to  Topping's  or  the  Queensford  or  even  to  more 
popular  halls  where  the  bands  were  good  and  the  floors 
better. 

"If   only,"    breathed    Patricia.     "If    only   one    could 
never  grow  up!     Always,  always  this  beautiful  .  .  ." 


11 

And  then  sometimes  she  longed  to  grow  up.  As  the 
variety  began  to  stir  her  blood,  and  an  odd  unoccupied 
evening  became  a  restless  horror,  she  knew  that  one  day 
she  would  want  to  be  different — to  do  different  things. 
She  tried  to  tell  Harry  how  she  felt.  They  were  sitting 
at  dinner  together  one  evening,  when  she  had  telephoned 
to  him  in  fear  of  a  solitary  time,  and  they  had  gone  to 
the  Chat  Blanc.  Patricia  was  smoking  one  of  her  own 
cigarettes  over  coffee,  and  was  blowing  the  smoke  slowly 
from  between  pursed  lips.  She  was  fully  conscious  of 
the  extraordinary  intimacy  between  them,  and  at  the 
same  time  of  the  constraint  that  underlay  the  intimacy 
and  gave  it  an  attractive  excitement.  Harry  was  so 
very  much  her  friend,  and  yet  her  feeling  for  him  was 
so  entirely  different  from  that  which  she  had  for  the 
other  young  men  of  her  acquaintance.  He  was  cleverer 
than  they — with  his  constant  sparkle  of  lively  expres- 
sion,— and  more  handsome.  He  was  himself,  where  the 
others  were  almost  indistinguishable  both  in  themselves 
in  their  rather  immature  and  shallow  and  admiringly 
friendly  attitude  to  herself.  His  admiration  was  that 
of  a  man.  She  responded  to  it. 

Around  Patricia  rose  the  white  walls  of  the  restaur- 
ant, daubed  with  the  strange  sick  fancies  of  eccentric 
artists;  and  from  their  table  she  could  command  the 
whole  of  the  long  narrow  room  filled  with  other,  similar 


SECOND  EVENING  111 

tables,  all  with  orange  and  white  check  tablecloths  and 
black  cruet  stands  and  pewter  knives  and  forks  and 
spoons.  Patricia  could  see  other  guests  departing  at  the 
approach  of  theatre  times,  and  waiters  bowing  and  flick- 
ing the  tables  clear  of  crumbs,  and  folding  fresh  napkins 
and  standing  the  menus  upright  again.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments they  would  be  the  only  people  left  in  the  restaurant, 
except  for  one  suburban  couple  who  had  strayed  into 
Soho  under  the  impression  that  theirs  was  a  very  bold 
experiment  in  night  life,  and  who  were  waiting  for  the 
sensations  to  begin.  It  was  just  then  that  Patricia  had 
this  notion,  which  was  new,  and  therefore  irrepressibly 
vehement,  about  the  desirability  of  growing  up. 

Harry  sat  opposite,  a  little  leaning  back  from  the 
table,  dabbing  a  finished  cigarette  into  the  plate  which 
they  were  using  as  an  ash-tray.  He  was  in  brown 
tweeds,  which  made  his  beautiful  fairness  appear  to 
dominate  and  penetrate  even  his  clothes.  The  fresh 
brown  of  his  face,  the  strength  of  his  shoulders,  the 
gold  at  his  temples  and  in  his  neat  moustache,  the  clean- 
ness of  his  lips  and  chin,  and  the  general  magnetism  of 
his  air  of  disciplined  vigour,  were  all  apparent.  But  in 
addition  she  was  most  singularly  moved  by  the  fine 
moulding  of  his  cheeks  and  that  air  of  confident  good- 
humour  with  which  the  popular  man  is  so  peculiarly 
endowed.  His  smile,  so  ready,  so  consciously  agreeable 
and  charming,  was  a  part  of  Harry  himself.  Patricia, 
equally  fair,  with  her  piquant  little  head,  and  the  blue 
expressive  eyes  and  mobile  lips,  was  his  delicious  coun- 
terpart. She  was  her  age,  and  a  child,  and  a  witch,  with 
much  greater  unconsciousness  than  he,  because  with  Pat- 
ricia, whose  thoughts  were  quick  and  fleeting,  every 
thought  had  a  reflection  in  her  face.  And  at  this  mo- 
ment, from  happiness,  she  had  turned  to  a  sudden  grave 
discovery,  far  more  quickly  than  most  men  could  have 


112  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

done;  and  her  gravity  had  given  way  before  resolution, 
desire,  uncertainty,  and  again  conviction. 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  big  house,"  she  said.  "A  country 
house,  with  lots  of  servants,  and  a  lake,  and  peacocks, 
and  a  ballroom,  and  a  wood,  and  lawns.  I'd  like  to 
manage  an  estate." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Harry,  pretending  to  be  startled, 
and  sharply  dropping  his  cigarette  stump  into  the  plate. 
"What  for?" 

"I'd  like  it.  You  see,  all  this  running  about — it's 
great  fun,  and  I  love  it.  But  it  won't  last/' 

"Why  not  ?"  Harry's  tone  was  a  little  flat,  as  though 
his  surprise  had  only  been  exaggerated,  as  though  he 
had  been  disturbed  by  a  definite  assumption.  "I  don't 
see  why  it  shouldn't.  After  all  .  .  ." 

"I  shall  get  tired  of  it." 

Harry  laughed,  showing  his  big  white  teeth.  Patri- 
cia wondered  if  he  knew  that  when  he  laughed  she  had 
a  sudden  almost  aching  thrill  of  affection  for  something 
boyish  and  lovable  in  him.  Did  he  know? 

"You  won't,"  he  assured  her,  the  laugh  remaining  and 
fixing  in  his  cheeks  for  a  moment  deep  lines  of  un- 
troubled good  humour.  "Not  for  a  century." 

"I  might.  I  might  get  tired  of  it  in  a  month,"  she 
said.  "Sometimes  I'm  tired  of  it  already."  Patricia 
hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  The  words  came 
easily;  but  the  conviction  was  lagging  behind  some- 
where in  another  thought.  "You  see,  Tom  Perry  and 
Daphne  and  Woods — they're  all  right,  but  they've  got 
no  brains.  If  I  want  to  talk  to  anybody — really  talk, 
I  mean, — there's  nobody  but  you." 

"Well?"     His  grin  reappeared.    "Aren't  I  enough?" 

"You're  splendid,  of  course." 

"You're  not  so  sure?"  Harry's  question  was  teas- 
ing: he  was  not  taking  her  seriously,  was  being  indul- 


SECOND  EVENING  113 

gent,  deliberately  winning:  but  a  shock  ran  through 
Patricia  even  as  she  responded  to  his  charm.  The  hesi- 
tation which  he  had  detected — had  it  really  been  there? 
Quick  emotion  moved  her.  She  turned  away  her  head 
for  an  instant.  For  that  fraction  of  time  her  doubt 
had  become  a  reality.  She  was  pitiably  uncertain  of 
herself.  Surely  if  one  were — say,  even  half-in-love — 
one  never  had  such  a  doubt  of  the  beloved?  And  yet 
Harry — he  was  older  than  herself,  a  man,  fixed  perhaps 
in  his  present  state  of  life.  ...  If  she  grew  out  of 
him!  What  then?  In  such  a  life  as  they  led.  .  .  . 
Patricia  still  clung  to  the  theory  of  constancy,  of  com- 
mon growth,  of  happiness  for  ever  after.  With  all  her 
arrogance,  she  did  not  want  to  lead.  To  be  led  was  a 
necessity  to  her. 

"Don't  you  see  I'm  not  sure?"  she  asked.  "How  can 
you  be  sure?  How  can  you  ever  know  what  you'll 
think  in  a  week,  or  a  month,  or  a  year?" 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  Harry  agreed  jocularly.  "The 
best  way  is  not  to  think  of  it — not  to  look  forward  at 
all."  His  words  were  light,  his  face  untroubled.  Did 
he  not  understand?  Was  he  reassuring  her,  or  did  his 
words  truly  represent  the  limitations  of  his  insight? 

"But  I've  got  to!"  She  was  urgent.  Tears  were  in 
her  eyes.  "I  was  just  thinking  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  going  to  get  tired  of  it,"  Harry  said,  his  jaw 
set  and  his  laughter  gone. 

"Aren't  you?"  asked  Patricia,  her  heart  sinking.  Her 
doubt  of  an  instant  before  seemed  to  be  confirmed.  A 
heavy  sigh  escaped  her.  For  a  moment  she  was  silent. 
Then,  with  an  abrupt  rally,  she  shook  her  head.  "No," 
she  continued.  "You're  not  going  to  get  tired  of  it. 
Nor  am  I!" 


THE  THREE  LOVERS 


111 


But  as  soon  as  she  had  spoken  the  words,  she  knew 
they  were  not  true.  She  could  not  tell  whether  she 
would  tire  now  or  later;  but  she  was  sure  that  one  day 
she  would  tire.  Her  capacity  for  growth  already  flew 
a  warning,  and  she  could  not  for  ever  be  blind  to  the 
signal.  Well,  and  what  then?  A  shadow  darkened 
her  eyes.  She  looked  across  at  Harry's  clear  and  happy 
face,  at  his  crisp  hair,  and  felt  the  strength  and 
energy  that  was  in  him.  How  resist  that  boyish  charm, 
the  laughter  that  seemed  so  constant?  Could  one  ever 
tire  of  laughter?  Surely  it  was  impossible.  Her  heart 
softened.  The  little  impetuous  mouth  drooped  ever  so 
little.  At  sight  of  that,  Harry's  smile  broadened. 

"You've  got  a  quaint  mind,"  he  said.  "It  doesn't 
matter  in  the  least." 

"It  does."  Patricia  frowned.  Then  as  suddenly  she 
smiled  in  return.  "No,  it  doesn't.  You're  quite  right. 
And  yet  it  does,  you  know." 

"Well,  which?" 

"I  don't  know.     I  don't  know.     I'll  never  know." 

"As  for  these  young  cubs  and  cublets,  let  'em  rip. 
They'll  never  be  any  different.  Where  you're  wrong  is 
in  worrying  about  it.  If  you  think,  you  wobble.  There- 
fore, don't  think." 

"It's  easy  to  say."  Patricia  regarded  herself  for  a 
moment  with  solemnity.  She  had  a  clear  sense  of  her- 
self refusing  to  be  content  with  something  less  than  the 
best.  She  wanted  to  live  to  the  fullest  capacity.  She 
was  quite  intensely  in  earnest  about  that,  about  her  re- 
sponsibility to  Patricia  Quin.  It  was  a  sacred  trust. 

He  stretched  a  big  hand  across  the  table  and  caught 
her  wrist,  pressing  it.  Their  exchanged  glance  was  of 
joy,  almost,  it  seemed,  of  understanding. 


SECOND  EVENING  115 

"Cheer  up!"  Harry  urged.     "Let's  clear  out  of  this." 

Within  two  minutes  they  were  out  in  the  black  street. 
A  stormy  wind  rushed  along  towards  and  past  them, 
leaving  Patricia  shivering  a  little.  Harry  put  out  an 
arm  and  caught  her  suddenly  to  him.  She  was  imme- 
diately free  again,  but  she  was  breathless  with  some- 
thing other  than  loss  of  breath,  and  her  heart  was  beating. 

"We'll  go  and  dance  somewhere,"  he  suggested. 

Patricia  shrank  from  his  tenderness  at  this  moment. 
The  wind,  the  hint  of  rain,  her  hidden  conflict  of  per- 
plexity, all  discomposed  her.  She  wanted  to  be  alone, 
to  think.  And  yet,  on  the  contrary,  most  passionately 
to  be  with  him,  and  not  to  think — never  to  think,  never 
to  wake.  ...  At  last: 

"No,"  said  she.  "I'm  not  in  the  mood.  I'd  spoil  it. 
I'll  go  home.  Let's  go  by  Tube." 

They  came  out  into  Shaftesbury  Avenue,  which  was 
half  deserted  now  that  the  omnibuses  and  the  theatres 
had  engulfed  so  many  of  those  who  crowd  the  street; 
and  then  that  deluge  which  had  been  on  the  tail  of  the 
wind  was  suddenly  released,  and  poured  down  so  sharply 
that  the  two  of  them  had  to  run  to  the  Piccadilly  Circus 
station.  Warmed  and  laughing,  they  stood  close  to- 
gether in  the  crowded  lift,  and  plunged  down  into  the 
earth.  Echoing  passages,  vehement  advertisements  of 
concerts  and  theatres,  some  stairs  in  a  blaze  of  baffling 
light;  and  they  were  listening  to  the  distant  rumblings 
of  Underground  trains. 

"On  Saturday,"  resumed  Harry,  "we'll  go  to  the  Ire- 
land match  at  Twickenham.  It's  always  the  best  Rugger 
of  the  season.  If  you'd  like  to?  And  in  the  evening 
Puffer's  got  a  party  in  his  cellars.  Sweaty  but  jolly,  the 
cry  is,  I  believe." 

"No,  I'm  going  to  Monty  Rosenberg's." 

"The  devil!     Monty?"     He  pulled  up  quickly.     His 


116  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

head  was  shaken.  "No,  don't  go  there.  Puffer's  a  de- 
cent old  sort." 

"So's  Monty."  Patricia  was  suddenly  defiant,  as  at 
some  assumption  of  right.  Harry  grimaced  at  her. 

"First  I've  heard  of  it,"  he  said.  "Don't  go  there, 
there's  a  dear!" 

"I've  promised.     I'm  going  with  Jacky  Dean." 

"Good  Lord!"  Harry  was  amazed.  He  would  have 
protested  further;  but  their  train  at  this  moment  burst 
from  the  tunnel.  They  were  crushed  into  it  by  eager 
fellow  passengers,  and  sat  blinking  in  that  strained  arti- 
ficial light  which  is  so  much  more  trying  to  the  eyes  than 
the  light  of  the  sun.  Extraordinary  roaring  filled  their 
ears.  With  the  crowd  and  the  dazzle  and  the  subter- 
ranean re-echoings  of  violent  noise  they  were  dazed  and 
helpless.  Impossible  to  converse.  Impossible  to  think 
clearly.  When  they  wished  to  communicate  with  one 
another  it  was  only  by  means  of  raised  voices  at  each 
other's  ears.  At  last  Harry  could  stand  it  no  longer. 
At  a  shout,  he  proceeded :  "Jack's  ...  a  decent  little 
.  .  .  owl.  But  he's  an  awful  .  .  .  fool!"  Patricia 
nodded.  The  train  ran  into  a  station,  and  there  was  an 
instant's  silence.  In  it,  Harry  resumed :  "Why  not 
come  with  me?  Don't  you  want  to  come?"  No  an- 
swer. He  bent  nearer,  and  Patricia  could  not  look  up. 
"You'd  rather  go  to  Monty's  ?  Well,  look  here,  come  to 
the  match,  any  way.  I've  got  to  go  there — on  business. 
I'm  doing  a  special  on  it.  Will  you?  That  all  right? 
Good." 

The  train  started  again.  They  were  lost  in  that  fear- 
some jungle  of  uproar.  Patricia  was  struggling  with 
herself.  The  noise  seemed  to  have  destroyed  all  her 
wit,  all  her  confidence.  She  could  not  understand  the 
sensation  she  had — as  though  she  were  stifling,  as  though 
the  blood  were  filling  her  cheeks. 


SECOND  EVENING  117 

"I'd  rather  come  to  Puffer's,"  she  managed  to  shout. 

"Well?" 

"I  can't." 

Harry  turned  away  grimly,  staring  at  an  advertise- 
ment. Their  wills  were  in  conflict.  Patricia's  eyes 
closed.  Her  brain  was  full  of  tormenting  thoughts.  He 
was  cruel.  Then,  no  ...  it  was  she  who  had  been. 
.  .  .  Uncontrollably,  her  hand  swiftly  moved,  and  was 
tucked  lightly  between  his  arm  and  his  body.  Harry's 
hand  came  as  swiftly  to  press  hers,  and  although  the 
two  hands  drew  apart  again  Patricia's  remained  within 
the  crook  of  his  elbow  for  the  rest  of  the  short  journey. 

iv 

By  the  time  they  reached  South  Kensington  station 
the  rain  had  ceased.  Big  clouds  were  passing  overhead 
at  high  speed,  and  the  wind  remained  fierce.  Somehow 
it  appeared  to  Patricia  that  when  one  had  looked  up- 
wards and  seen  the  clouds,  and  behind  them  that  lighter 
darkness  the  sky,  all  that  stood  upon  the  surface  of  the 
earth  was  dwarfed.  The  people,  the  lamps,  the  trees, 
the  houses,  were  all  shrunk  to  insignificance,  as  the  pain 
and  bewilderment  of  poor  humans  must  seem  to  those 
steady  eyes  of  pity,  the  stars.  She  could  not  see  any 
stars,  but  the  gusts  of  wind  made  for  the  impression  of 
great  spaces,  and  presently  the  few  trees  by  the  side  of 
the  road,  and  the  dark  houses  which  lay  beyond,  took 
on  the  air  of  a  mysterious  wood.  She  felt  that  she 
and  Harry  were  wandering  alone  in  a  wood  at  night, 
beneath  the  stars,  listening  to  the  endless  torment  of  the 
anguished  leaves;  and  all  her  love  of  beauty  made  her 
heart  soft,  so  that  she  was  moved  beyond  tears,  and 
wished  only  to  rest  her  head  and  prolong  the  ecstatic 
moment. 


118  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

But  she  could  not  speak  to  Harry.  She  could  have 
taken  his  hand  and  walked  onward  in  silence;  but  that 
was  impossible,  because  this  vision  that  she  had  was 
unsubstantial,  and  Harry,  whose  laughter  was  so  de- 
lightful, would  not  understand  anything  that  was  so  in- 
tangible, so  unrelated  to  his  normal  life.  She  was  con- 
scious in  him  of  a  thick  stream  of  emotion,  of  the  power 
of  serious  preoccupation  with  sensual  things,  amounting 
to  obsession ;  and  sometimes  she  had  that  same  thickness 
of  emotion  when  she  was  with  him  or  longing  for  him, 
but  never  with  obsession ; — always  with  a  shyness,  a  fly- 
ing away,  as  of  some  will  o'  the  wisp.  But  she  more 
often  had  only  a  light  playing  of  fancy,  which  made  love 
a  beautiful  game;  and  now  she  had  only  a  childish  desire 
for  happiness  and  mystical  beauty.  This  her  instinct 
told  her  was  not  shared.  If  Harry  laughed,  it  was  be- 
cause there  were  whole  realms  of  which  he  knew  noth- 
ing. She  had  a  swift  certainty;  there  was  no  poetry  in 
his  nature.  He  was  all  the  time  absorbed  in  the  tangible. 
Oh !  What  treason !  She  would  not  allow  such  thoughts. 
They  were  wicked,  unjust,  treacherous.  .  .  .  How  the 
wind  thrust  and  blustered  among  the  trees!  She  could 
feel  it  upon  her  face  and  in  her  hair,  and  in  her  eyes. 
Harry  said : 

"Your  friend  Amy  Roberts  has  been  making  a  fool 
of  herself." 

Patricia,  withdrawn  from  her  wonderings  by  so  in- 
congruous a  speech,  could  hardly  understand  him  for  a 
moment.  Amy  .  .  .  Amy.  ...  It  was  an  instant  be- 
fore she  could  bring  herself  to  recognition. 

"Oh."  At  last,  vaguely,  Patricia  groped  for  his 
meaning.  "What's  she  been  doing?" 

"It  seems  she  ran  into  Felix  Brow  somewhere,  and 
taxed  him  with  saying  she  couldn't  paint.  Of  course, 
poor  Felix  muffed  the  thing.  Or  perhaps,  after  all,  he 


SECOND  EVENING  119 

didn't.  He  said  he  didn't  know  she  painted  at  all.  Yes, 
I  expect  that  wasn't  so  much  of  a  muff  as  I  thought  it 
was  at  first.  Damned  insulting,"  Harry  laughed  ap- 
preciatively, thinking  the  speech  over  to  himself  before 
he  continued :  "He  begged  her  not  to  betray  him. 
That  made  Amy  angry.  Somebody  had  told  her  he'd 
said  she  painted  with  a  besom.  She'd  prefer  even  that 
to  being  ignored.  After  all,  she's  no  good  as  an  artist. 
She's  too  stupid.  And  she  makes  these  ridiculous  scenes. 
There's  some  itch  in  her  that  makes  her  precipitate  a 
row." 

"I  think  she's  ^"^i+fd  — 

"Of  course  she  is.     Did  jyou  ever  know  a  fool  who 
. wasn't?     But   she's   worse,   because   she   quarrels^with 
pWlSle^who  mean  kindly  by  her." 

"I  know."  Rather  despairingly,  Patricia  shook  her 
head.  "Did  Felix  really  say  that?" 

"My  dear!  Poor  old  Felix  wouldn't  say  anything  so 
dull.  After  all,  he  is  a  wit.  He'd  say  something  worth 
saying,  and  worth  repeating,  or  he  wouldn't  open  his 
mouth." 

"These  witty  things,  though.     Are  they  really  said?" 

Patricia's  cynicism  was  too  much  for  Harry.  He 
laughed,  looking  down  at  her  with  an  almost  proprietary 
air  of  delight. 

"I've  heard  a  few  of  them.  They're  not  always  spon- 
taneous, of  course.  But  it's  so  absurd  of  Amy  to  quar- 
rel with  a  man  like  Felix.  It  can  only  do  her  harm. 
He  will  say  something  about  her  now.  I  mean,  he's  a 
man  to  stand  in  with,  not  quarrel  with." 

Patricia  was  struck  by  this  point. 

"Do  you  really  think  that?"  she  asked.  "That  one 
ought  to  'stand  in'  with  people." 

"Of  course!"     Harry's  tone  was  severe. 

"You  think  it's  right?     You  do  it  yourself?"     Pat- 


120  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

ricia's  tone  was  sad.  She  could  not  see  his  face;  but 
then  neither  could  he  see  hers.  For  Patricia  the  ques- 
tion was  of  vital  importance.  Yet  Harry  was  not  con- 
scious of  the  meaning  of  her  question. 

"You've  got  to  do  everything  in  this  world/'  he  as- 
sured her  confidently. 

"How  base!"  Patricia's  protest  was  so  low  that  it 
escaped  Harry.  "But  surely,  Harry,  if  you're  any 
good  .  .  ." 

"All  the  more  reason.  Of  course,  it  doesn't  matter 
in  Amy's  case  .  .  ." 

"I  must  go  and  see  her/' 

Patricia  spoke  mechanically.  She  was  not  thinking 
of  Amy.  She  was  thinking  of  Harry,  and  of  herself. 

"She'll  probably  tell  you  about  Felix — with  embel- 
lishments of  her  own.  A  few  of  the  withering  replies 
she's  thought  of  since.  I  will  say  that  for  Amy:  she 
improves  her  speeches  a  lot  in  revision."  He  laughed 
with  some  dryness. 

"Harry!"  protested  Patricia.  "I  believe  you're  spite- 
ful!" 

"As  a  nun!"  he  agreed.     "Didn't  you  know?" 

Again  Patricia  shrank  into  herself.  They  were  near- 
ing  her  home  now,  and  the  road  was  very  dark,  and 
Harry's  nearness  gave  her  a  sense  of  happiness  and 
security.  And  yet  she  was  neither  happy  nor  secure. 
It  seemed  as  though  the  stormy  evening  had  reawakened 
all  her  sensitiveness.  No,  she  was  not  happy.  Inter- 
mingled with  her  own  mood  was  the  strange  jumble  of 
problems  which  had  been  raised  by  their  talk  and  the 
memories  it  evoked.  Now  she  wanted  to  leave  him,  now 
to  stay — and  at  each  turn  she  was  exasperated  anew  at 
her  own  waywardness.  The  shallowness  of  Harry's 
conviction  that  one  ought  to 'cultivate  those  who  might 
be  useful  hurt  her  (as  similar  remarks  had  done  several 


SECOND  EVENING  121 

times  before).  She  remembered  several  of  her  dis- 
tastes for  things  he  had  said.  She  remembered,  too, 
their  talk  over  dinner  on  the  subject  of  growing  up;  and 
it  made  her  shiver.  And  yet  she  continued  to  walk  by 
Harry's  side,  feeling  in  his  proximity  the  same  joy,  the 
same  warm  affection  as  she  had  done  all  the  evening. 
It  surprised  her  to  know  that  one's  love  for  a  person 
could  fluctuate  so^aji^  so  persist7sth'at''it"c'flokl  come  and 
go~almost  as  if  with"  ^Breathing.  She  was  undecided. 
Did  she  perhaps  not  love  him  at  all?  It  was  as  though 
some  reality  greater  than  inclination,  or  else  some  very- 
strong  illusion,  was  always  interrupting  her  love  and 
making  it  ineffective.  He  was  the  only  man  she  had 
ever  wanted  to  kiss  her,  the  only  man  to  whom  she  could 
physically  have  yielded  herself;  and  yet  .  .  . 

She  fell  into  a  series  of  fresh  ponderings,  about  Amy 
and  Jack  Penton,  about  Harry  and  Amy,  about  Harry 
and  Rhoda,  Harry  and  Bella,  about  Harry's  spitefulness ; 
and  with  each  variation  of  the  theme  it  became  less  and 
less  possible  to  disclose  the  nature  of  her  thoughts  to 
Harr^/How  could  one  love  a  person,  and  yet  some^"") 
'times  dislike  what  they  said,  and  resent  what  they 
japd  hate  what  they  thought?  And  yet,  as  her  heart 
told  her,  he  was  the  man  she  loved,  so  beautiful,  so 
strong,  so  much  her  true  love.  What  were  thoughts 
and  speeches  compared  with  that  instinctive  certainty? 
She  was  torn.  It  was  a  puzzle  to  Patricia  that  this  hesi- 
tation should  arise.  She  was  unhappy  under  her  hap- 
piness. 

Suddenly  she  became  aware  that  they  were  outside  her 
home,  and  that  the  house  was  dark,  and  that  Harry  had 
spoken  to  her  without  receiving  a  reply. 

"Hey!"  he  cried  sharply,  to  attract  her  attention. 

Patricia,  startled,  looked  up  at  him  as  if  she  were 
dreaming.  The  little  hushing  wind  in  the  slim  and  bare 


122  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

branches  of  small  trees  was  accompanied  by  the  patter- 
ing drops  of  a  fresh  shower.  Cold  splashes  touched 
her  cheeks.  She  could  see  Harry  standing  like  a  giant 
above  her,  could  feel  the  radiance  of  his  strength  and 
beauty  and  love  for  her.  She  was  deeply  moved. 
Harry,  amused  and  laughing  at  her  abstracted  silence, 
put  his  arm  round  her.  As  if  naturally,  but  in  reality 
because  she  was  only  half-attentive,  Patricia  stopped, 
standing  there  within  his  arm.  She  was  quite  happy, 
quite  at  ease,  but  dreaming. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked,  in  a  very  hushed  way,  hardly 
to  be  heard. 

"Only  that  you're  a  darling!"  Harry  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  holding  her  tightly  but  gently  within  his  arm, 
and  with  his  free  hand  raising  her  hand  to  his  lips.  She 
felt  his  rough  cheek  against  her  own,  his  warm  lips,  and 
against  her  hair  the  brim  of  his  hat.  How  strange  that 
for  a  moment,  held  so  firmly,  Patricia  felt  nothing  at  all 
except  that  it  was  delicious  to  be  there,  delicious  to  be 
so  encircled,  so  loved.  Harry  kissed  her  a  second  time, 
but  not  her  averted  mouth.  She  felt  his  lips  encroach- 
ing, his  hold  more  urgent.  Patricia's  heart  beat  faster. 
So  she  might  yield  herself  to  love.  He  would  kiss  her 
lips,  and  she  would  kiss  him,  and  then  for  ever — for  ever 
.  .  .  She  was  half -yielding.  She  was  yielding.  Faster 
and  faster  ran  her  heart,  and  the  wind  and  rain  and 
darkness  were  blotted  out  in  this  sweet  stupor.  And 
then  some  electrical  revolt  shocked  her  into  resistance. 

"No!"  she  said,  very  quietly,  and  sought  to  disengage 
herself. 

"Kiss  me!"  demanded  Harry.     "My  dearest!" 

"No!"  said  Patricia,  again.  But  she  was  not  really 
unwilling  or  afraid.  She  was  happy  and  at  ease  and  full 
of  almost  luxurious  reassurance.  And  at  the  same  time 
she  was  inexorable.  When  Harry  would  have  kept  her 


SECOND  EVENING  123 

and  again  would  have  kissed  her  he  was  unable  to 
do  so.  Her  body  seemed  to  be  steel,  her  will 
greater  than  his  impetuousness.  In  the  struggle  between 
domination  and  the  instinct  for  liberty  this  new  strength 
of  Patricia's  was  in  no  way  to  be  gainsaid.  She  con- 
tinued, despite  his  effort,  unquestionably  to  belong  to 
herself.  The  impulse  to  submit  was  vanquished  by 
something  yet  more  insistent. 

"Patricia!"  commanded  Harry.  He  was  warm,  was 
masterful.  Such  a  tone  had  never  hitherto  failed  him, 
and  was  now  both  ardent  and  sincere.  Patricia  was 
quite  aware  of  the  physical  agitation  which  he  thus  ex- 
pressed. He  was  bent  upon  victory,  forcing  the  issue. 
And  with  each  fleeting  second  his  will  strengthened  her 
own.  Harry  was  urgent.  Patricia's  nerve  was  stead- 
ied. He  followed  her,  determined,  very  nearly  irre- 
sistible. 

"No.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want  you  to."  Her  tone 
was  cold  and  without  feeling;  but  her  eyes  were  shining 
and  her  heart  was  full. 

"My  dear,  you  can't  .  .  ." 

She  held  his  hand,  and  pressed  it,  all  the  time  evading 
his  renewed  embrace.  The  wind  came  sweeping  along 
the  street,  and  around  them  was  blackness  and  silence. 
Moved  and  troubled,  but  as  one  in  a  dream,  Patricia 
freed  herself,  made  no  answer  to  his  entreaty,  and  left 
him  listening  to  the  sound  of  a  closing  door,  and  feeling 
the  smart  tingle  of  raindrops  upon  his  face  and  the  backs 
of  his  bare  hands. 


CHAPTER  EIGHT:  A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE 


PATRICIA  undressed,  still  trembling,  still  with  a 
set  face  and  a  false  air  of  coolness.  Only  when 
she  was  in  bed  was  she  hysterically  filled  with  anger 
for  herself,  and  contempt,  almost  with  self-horror.  She 
could  not  comprehend  herself  or  her  own  stupidity,  so 
great  was  her  longing  for  love  and  understanding. 

"Love — yes;  but  understanding!"  He  could  under- 
stand her  in  happiness — now,  at  dinner,  at  the  dance. 
But  as  she  grew  older,  as  she  needed  guidance  and  wis- 
dom? Never!  That  was  her  thought  of  Harry,  the 
first  wild  sweep  of  anger  at  his  deficiency.  "He'd  never 
understand  me — never !"  And  then  again  she  demanded 
of  the  silence,  striking  the  pillow  with  her  vehemence : 
"Why — why — why?"  Why  had  she  so  shrunk  from 
love?  Excuses  poured  into  her  mind,  the  more  vehe- 
ment because  she  felt  them  to  be  invalid.  It  had  been  a 
mood,  this  rejection  of  his  love.  She  wasn't  account- 
able for  her  moods.  She  said  definite  things  without 
knowing  them  to  be  definite — without  meaning  them  to 
be  definite.  It  wasn't  final.  It  wasn't.  Then  self- 
anger  again  grew  uppermost.  "You  fool!  You  little 
fool!"  she  cried  aloud.  Then  again:  "I'm  not  ready. 
I  don't  know  what  love  is.  I  only  want  to  be  loved.  I 
don't  want  to  love  and  be  loved — not  finally,  like  this; 
not  give  myself  up  to  it.  Only  like  a  little  girl.  I 
don't  love  him.  I  felt  it.  I've  just,  been  playing  .  .  . 
I  can't  love  him !  If  I  did,  I  should  be  sure.  I  shouldn't 
think  ...  of  all  this  ...  of  his  not  ...  of  my  grow- 

124 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  125 

ing  out  of  him.  ...  I  should  be  proud — overwhelmed. 
I'm  not  proud.  Not  overwhelmed.  He's  only  selfish. 
I  could  tell.  Anybody  could  have  told.  The  feeling  was 
all  wrong.  It  was  .  .  .  He's  kissed  other  girls.  They 
were  proud — willing.  .  .  .  He  wants  love  in  his  way — 
not  mine.  He  can't  have  it.  I'm  not  sure.  I've  got 
to  be  sure.  It's  for  life.  He  must  give  me  time.  I 
felt  he  wouldn't.  .  .  .  And  yet  I  do  love  him  so.  ... 
Harry!  My  dear!"  She  pressed  her  lips  to  her  own 
fingers,  kissing  them  sweetly.  "I  wanted  him  to  kiss 
me.  I  liked  it.  I  wanted  it.  I  wouldn't  let  him.  .  .  . 
How  could  I  be  so  beastly — so  beastly!  I  couldn't  have 
kissed  him.  I've  thought  of  it — liked  the  idea  of  it. 
It's  the  reality — cowardice.  Oh,  I'm  afraid  of  life.  It's 
all  very  well  to  play  and  dream — lovesick  girl.  When 
a  man  really  ...  It  wouldn't  have  been  right.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  true.  It  can't  be  right  to  feel  like 
this!  I'm  sophisticated.  I  want  love,  and  not  love, — 
love  and  friendship  and  wisdom  and  understanding — 
somebody  to  understand  me ;  somebody  delicate  and  wise 
.  .  .  beautiful.  ...  I  want  too  much.  You  can't 
ask  .  .  ." 

With  a  mind  distraught,  she  turned  upon  the  pillow, 
until  it  grew  hot  and  seemed  to  rasp  her  cheeks ;  and  her 
head  ached  and  her  eyes  and  lips  burned  and  the  room 
seemed  overpoweringly  full  of  stale  air.  She  could  see 
the  darkness  out  of  doors,  and  hear  the  wind  tearing  and 
pressing  in  wild  gusts  out  of  doors,  and  soot  whispering 
down  the  chimney,  like  mice  foraging  in  a  newspaper. 
The  wooden  rod  at  the  foot  of  the  hanging  linen  blind 
knocked  against  the  casement  until  she  was  frenzied; 
and  she  rose  passionately  to  draw  the  blind  to  its  full 
height,  out  of  the  draught.  Standing  there  in  the  dark- 
ness she  could  feel  the  cold  air  upon  her  raised  arm  and 
her  breast,  and  in  a  moment  through  her  thin  nightgown. 


126  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

And  all  the  time  her  lips  were  drawn  back  and  down  in 
this  great  distress  and  self-blame  which  had  come  sud- 
denly into  her  blithe  days.  And  she  realised  that  it  had  all 
been  implicit  in  her  blitheness,  that  only  a  young  girl 
could  have  supposed  that  the  postponement  could  go  on 
for  as  long  as  her  delight  in  it  was  maintained. 

"If  only  I  had  something  to  drink  I  should  feel  bet- 
ter!" cried  Patricia,  on  an  impulse.  She  went  to  the 
washstand,  and  the  carafe  was  empty.  The  water- jug 
was  empty.  Lucy  had  forgotten  to  fill  it.  Even  here 
the  catastrophe  was  a  futility,  a  humiliation,  a  further 
exasperation.  She  was  maddened.  She  was  shaken 
and  jangled.  Rage  swept  her.  "Oh,  damn!"  she  cried. 
"Everything!  It's  awful!" 

With  her  hands  in  her  mouth,  Patricia  turned  back 
towards  the  bed,  and  leant  against  the  foot  of  it;  and 
sobs  shook  her  body,  so  bitterly  that  she  was  afraid  her 
crying  would  be  overheard,  and  crept  back  to  bed  to 
cover  herself  and  stifle  the  noise.  It  was  the  great 
strong  dreadful  crying  of  a  little  girl  who  had  been  dis- 
appointed of  some  dearest  wish.  It  was  not  a  woman's 
crying  at  all.  It  was  the  result  of  shock  and  self -con- 
tempt; but  it  was  not  the  heartbreaking  sorrow  of  the 
hopeless  woman.  Patricia  would  yet  laugh  again — 
would  laugh,  perhaps  even  at  herself.  But  now  she 
could  see  only  her  own  cowardice,  and  she  was  in 
despair. 

Presently  the  crying  ceased,  and  Patricia  began  to 
talk  to  herself,  very  softly,  as  a  little  girl  who  has  been 
desperately  unhappy  will  sometimes  do;  and  because 
there  was  nobody  in  the  world  to  comfort  her  she  began 
to  try  and  comfort  herself,  speaking  between  small  spas- 
modic sobs,  and  explaining  and  cheering,  as  the  mother 
she  could  not  remember  might  have  done.  It  was  poor 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  127 

cheer;  but  it  gradually  began  to  soothe  her.  And  at 
last,  lingeringly,  in  pity  for  herself  at  having  nobody  to 
console  her  for  ignorance  and  uncertainty,  Patricia  be- 
gan refreshingly  to  cry.  Long  afterwards,  while  it  was 
still  dark,  she  fell  asleep. 


11 

When  Lucy  banged  into  the  room  in  the  morning- 
Patricia  still  slept,  her  little  pale  face  deep  in  the  pillow, 
and  her  hair  tumbled;  and  she  would  have  continued  to 
sleep  if  Lucy,  in  stumping  across  to  the  window,  had  not 
been  reminded  of  her  failure  to  fill  the  carafe  and  water- 
jug- 

"Gawd  love  a  duck!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  at  which  Pat- 
ricia awoke. 

She  could  vaguely  see  a  pink  dress,  very  soiled,  and  a 
big  dirty  apron  surrounding  a  stumpy  body,  and  a  little 
cap,  and  the  dirty  red  smudge  which  she  knew  to  be 
Lucy's  face. 

"Good  morning,"  said  Patricia  drowsily,  still  hardly 
conscious  of  the  day. 

"I've  said  it  once,"  cried  Lucy,  emphasising  the  sib- 
ilants until  she  appeared  to  hiss.  "I  said  it  as  I  come 
in.  And  now  I've  got  to  traipse  all  the  way  downstairs 
again  to  get  you  some  cole  water!  What  a  life!" 

"Well,  Lucy,"  said  Patricia,  putting  her  head  out  of 
bed.  "I  don't  think  you  can  blame  me  for  that.  In. 
fact  I  was  very  annoyed  last  night,  when  I  was  thirsty, 
to  find  there  wasn't  any.  I  might  have  parched  to- 
death." 

"You  didden  brush  your  teeth  larce  night,  I  can  see," 
retorted  Lucy.  "Got  'ome  too  late,  I  s'pose,  and  fright- 
ened of  the  beetles."  She  clucked  her  tongue  in  reproof. 


128  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Your  young  man  wouldn'  like  to  know  that  about  you!" 

"Don't  be  coarse,  Lucy.  I  did  forget  to  brush  my 
teeth.  But  it's  the  first  time  for  months." 

"Gawd.  Some  people  wants  a  nursie  always  after 
them !  I  got  no  time  for  it.  Not  myself,  I  'aven't.  I 
s'pose  I  got  to  get  your  water  now.  Don't  want  to 
scald  yourself.  'E  wouldn'  like  that,  neither!" 

An  idea  shot  into  Patricia's  head.  She  had  a  sudden 
cowardice  about  getting  up.  What  if  Harry  had  writ- 
ten? She  felt  she  simply  could  not  face  all  the  possible 
sequels  to  last  night's  scene.  It  was  terrifying!  As 
she  lay  there  she  definitely  feared  the  day,  and  its  out- 
come. All  the  time  Lucy  was  away,  Patricia  was 
trembling  with  apprehensiveness.  She  would  run  away 
— she  would  burn  a  letter — she  would.  .  .  .  Ghastly 
possibilities  flew  through  her  mind.  Lucy  had  hardly 
re-entered,  panting  and  noisy,  before  the  inquiry  was 
launched  alarmingly  at  her. 

"Lucy,  is  there  a  letter  for  me?"  demanded  Patricia, 
in  a  betrayingly  self-conscious  and  unsteady  voice. 

"No!"  said  the  smudge,  rather  severely.  "There 
ain't!  But  there's  some  nice  cole  kipper,  if  you  'urry." 

She  disappeared,  while  Patricia,  half-relieved  and  half 
tearful,  with  a  sinking  heart,  put  her  head  back  under  the 
clothes,  feeling  ill  and  doleful  and  heavy  with  trepi- 
dation. 

iii 

There  was  a  long  silence.  It  was  not  that  Patricia 
was  asleep,  although  she  was  so  tired.  She  was  ma- 
lingering. A  fond  mother  would  have  been  misled.  She 
almost,  in  that  role,  convinced  herself.  But  she  knew 
that  Lucy  would  never  be  a  willing  dupe,  and  something 
about  Lucy's  wholly  unsentimental  attitude  towards  ill- 
health  alarmed  Patricia.  It  was  not,  however,  until  she 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  129 

was  stung  by  a  bitter  thought  that  she  rolled  back  the 
bedclothes  and  paddled  her  bare  feet  upon  the  floor. 

"I'm  just  like  Amy,  with  Jack  Penton!"  was  the 
thought.  "How  horrible!" 

That  thought  stayed  with  Patricia  during  the  whole 
of  her  bathing  and  washing.  She  was  appalled  by  it. 
No  criticism  could  have  been  more  withering. 

"But  Harry  would  never  be  like  Jack !"  she  exclaimed, 
with  certainty.  "He'd  never  stay  on  the  chance  that 
I'd  change  my  mind.  With  him  it's  one  thing  or  the 
other.  I  wonder  ..." 

It  was  a  possibility.  Perhaps  it  was  the  solution. 
Patricia  felt  brighter.  Of  course!  Why  had  she  not 
thought  of  it  before?  She  would  say  to  Harry,  and  it 
would  be  an  extremely  reasonable  speech:  "Harry,  I 
do  think  I  love  you.  But  I  want  to  make  sure.  Can  we 
go  on  as  we  are — just  being  friends — for  the  present?" 
"Of  course,  old  girl,"  Harry  would  say.  "I  don't  want 
to  hurry  you,  if  you're  not  sure.  Just  try  me  for  a  little 
while."  Patricia  laughed,  as  she  imagined  him  saying 
that.  Harry  would  laugh,  too.  She  would  .  .  .  Her 
eyes  sparkled.  She  became  demure. 

Suddenly,  in  her  imagining,  Harry  turned  sharply  to 
her.  "By  the  way,"  he  said.  "How  long  am  I  to  wait?" 
Patricia  answered  very  quickly.  "Well,  I  couldn't 
marry  you  until  I  got  a  trousseau,  could  I?" 

She  had  awakened  in  a  very  different  state  of  mind 
from  that  in  which  she  had  slept.  Far  from  the  danger, 
she  had  become  quite  bold.  It  seemed  at  this  moment 
as  though  she  had  almost  made  up  her  mind. 

"But  I  haven't  .  .  .  really,"  said  Patricia.  "I'm  only 
brave  in  the  morning,  because  the  danger  isn't  urgent." 
It  was  true.  She  had  floated  back  into  her  dream  of 
love.  The  reality  no  longer  disturbed  her.  Slowly  her 
mind  returned  to  the  bitter  thought  which  had  driven 


130  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

her  out  of  bed.  Supposing  Harry  said:  "Now 
or  never!"  What  then?  Immediately  her  courage 
oozed  away.  She  shook  her  head,  and  became  very 
grave.  Even  in  her  drowsy  state  of  unreality  she  still 
knew  that  she  must  play  the  game.  "I  can't  give  him 
up!"  she  thought.  Then  she  laughed  without  glee. 
'Tm  like  Amy.  I  know  it.  Why  am  I  like  her?  Are 
all  girls  like  her?  Impossible !  I  shall  go  and  see  Amy. 
It'll  be  good  for  me.  I'll  go  this  very  afternoon!" 

iv 

Over  breakfast,  the  nature  and  temperature  of  which 
was  as  Lucy  had  prophesied,  and  of  which  she  could 
therefore  eat  little,  Patricia  had  a  cunning  insight.  Harry 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  accepting  refusals.  If  he  wanted 
a  thing  he  went  for  it.  Therefore,  supposing  his  work 
did  not  prevent,  he  might  call  for  her  at  any  time  during 
the  day.  He  would  come.  .  .  .  She  was  seized  with 
panic.  No  message  would  send  him  away,  and  she  was 
not  in  a  state  to  see  him. 

"You  silly!"  cried  Patricia. 

All  the  same,  she  could  not  see  Harry  until  she  was 
more  composed.  It  would  be  impossible.  Consent  won 
from  her  in  such  circumstances,  she  knew,  would  be  dis- 
astrous. Instinct  was  sound  there!  She  knew  herself 
well  enough  to  realise  that  coercion  of  her  impulses 
would  result — not  in  submission,  as  it  might  do  in  the  case 
of  girls  less  neurotic,  but  in  inhibitions.  Therefore  she 
must  not  see  Harry  until  she  was  calmer,  until  she  could 
freely  give  him  the  love  he  demanded.  To  know  this, 
and  to  foresee  his  possible  arrival,  was  to  take  instant 
action.  She  looked  out  of  the  window.  Last  night's 
storm  had  been  appropriately  followed  by  morning  calm. 
The  few  clouds  in  the  sky  immediately  visible  from  her 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LITE  131 

room  were  white,  and  they  were  racing  ferociously  to 
the  east.  That  meant  more  rain.  She  would  go  pre- 
pared; but  she  could  not  stay  at  home  another  minute 
without  increasing  her  danger. 

Quick!  Her  mackintosh,  her  waterproof  cap!  Her 
handbag,  gloves.  ...  In  fresh  panic,  Patricia  gath- 
ered these  necessary  things  and  hurried  down  the  stairs. 

"Lucy!"  she  called  to  the  kitchen.  "I'm  going  out. 
All  day.  If  anybody  comes,  say  you  don't  know  when 
I'll  be  back." 

"Righto,  miss!"  came  a  faint  call  in  response. 

The  gusty  wind  slammed  the  front  door  behind  her. 
A  hasty  glance  along  the  street  showed  that  the  path  was 
still  clear.  With  lowered  head  and  beating1  heart  Pat- 
ricia made  her  escape,  laughing  a  little  at  her  own  fears. 
Some  exultation  showed  itself  also  in  her  inner  con- 
sciousness— a  vanity,  a  something  of  the  heart.  After 
all,  it  was  something  to  have  a  lover  of  whose  deter- 
mination one  could  be  happily  afraid!  Panic  had  its 
core  of  delight! 


An  omnibus  carried  Patricia  to  Charing  Cross,  and 
she  walked  over  to  the  National  Gallery.  It  was  not 
open  yet.  The  beginning  of  her  day  was  inauspicious. 
It  became  necessary  that  she  should  wander  about  the 
streets,  looking  in  shops,  unless  she  could  think  of  some 
alternative  to  her  first  improvised  plan.  She  glanced  up 
at  the  sky,  and  the  rapid  movement  of  the  clouds  gave 
her  inspiration.  The  sky  was  brilliantly  blue,  and  a 
draughty  day  in  London  might  well  be  delightful  in  the 
country.  But  where,  cheaply,  could  she  go?  The  near- 
est open  space  would  be  the  best.  It  required  but  a 
moment's  reflection  to  decide  what  to  do.  Another  om- 
nibus would  take  her  to  Hampstead.  And  so  she  was 


132  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

once  again  in  movement,  and,  looking  over  the  side  of 
the  vehicle  with  a  curled  lip  of  distaste  and  a  sharp  won- 
der at  the  people  who  could  bear  to  live  in  such  districts, 
she  passed  through  the  dinginess  of  Camden  Town  and 
Gospel  Oak.  From  the  point  of  arrival,  where  the  om- 
nibuses rested  awhile  before  they  returned  once  again 
on  their  unsteady  journey,  she  quickly  reached  the  Heath. 

It  was  very  windy,  and  the  ground  beneath  her  feet 
was  soggy  with  the  rain;  but  Patricia  trudged  on  val- 
iantly, looking  back  from  the  height  over  that  grey  fog 
of  rising  smoke  which  marked  the  daily  life  of  nearer 
London.  All  about  her  was  a  wide  stretch  of  green, 
rising  and  falling  from  one  round  height  to  a  lowland 
where  several  large  ponds  spread  their  black  waters. 
The  Heath,  and  the  Parliament  Hill  Fields,  were  de- 
serted. It  was  not  the  time  of  year,  nor  the  day  of  the 
week,  for  this  enormous  and  house-bound  green  to  be 
peopled.  Even  children  were  at  school.  Only  an  occa- 
sional old  gentleman  or  loitering  out-of-work  passed  her, 
with  hastily  averted  eyes  of  resentment  and  fear,  and 
occasionally  a  girl  or  nurse  with  young  children  in  a 
perambulator  ambled  by,  munching  fruit  or  studying  a 
novelette  as  she  trusted  to  the  rim  of  grass  to  keep  her 
path  true.  The  paths  yielded  to  Patricia's  feet;  the 
grass  concealed  mud,  and  was  treacherous.  But  the 
fresh  air  was  most  sweet,  and  the  exercise  improved  her 
morale,  and  every  trouble  in  the  world  seemed  to  have 
drifted  to  a  convenient  distance.  Patricia  was  breath- 
ing deeply  with  relief. 

She  walked  upon  the  Heath  for  a  couple  of  hours,  and 
sat  awhile  upon  a  seat,  exposed  to  every  wind,  until  the 
cold  began  to  make  her  uncomfortable;  and  then,  with 
a  plunge,  she  returned  to  the  point  from  which  the  omni- 
buses start.  Within  half-an-hour  Patricia  was  back  in 
the  West  End,  very  much  better,  very  much  more  able 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  133 

to  enjoy  the  crowds  in  Regent  Street  and  Oxford  Street. 
A  short  tour  brought  her  to  the  end  of  the  shops,  and 
she  found  it  was  lunchtime.  Still  further  refreshed  by 
a  light  meal  at  a  neighbouring  teashop,  she  returned  to 
the  National  Gallery;  and  stared  at  pictures  until  the 
extremely  tiring  pastime  made  her  begin  to  yawn.  Pat- 
ricia knew  that  it  was  now — if  she  was  going  to  keep 
to  the  schedule  of  her  planned  day — her  duty  to  call  upon 
Amy,  and  to  Amy's  studio  in  Fitzroy  Street  she  accord- 
ingly went  on  foot. 

Arrival  at  Amy's  found  her  weary  and  depressed.  She 
had  begun  once  more  to  take  a  pessimistic  view  of  her 
own  affairs.  When  she  had  rung  the  bell  Patricia  had 
a  momentary  inclination  to  run  away.  To  endure  a  talk 
here  was  the  last  thing  for  which  she  was  prepared.  It 
had  been  a  ridiculous  proposal.  She  wavered,  feeling 
demoralised.  The  impulse  to  flight,  however,  was  frus- 
trated by  the  appearance  at  the  door  of  Amy  herself, 
very  white  and  very  puffy  about  the  eyes,  with  a  cig- 
arette between  her  discoloured  fingers,  and  her  dress 
crumpled  as  though  she  had  been  lying  down.  Her 
short  light-coloured  hair  was  also  rough,  which  strength- 
ened the  first  quick  impression.  She  looked  ill  and  dis- 
contented. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  said  Amy,  not  very  agreeably.  "I 
thought  you'd  forgotten  I  existed." 

"Oh,  how  unkind,  Amy.  When  I've  come  to  see 
you!"  cried  Patricia,  in  rebuke. 

"It's  about  time."  Amy,  after  this  laconic  protest 
against  neglect,  led  the  way  to  the  studio,  and  closed  the 
door.  Her  gas-fire  was  fully  alight,  and  a  book  lay 
face  downwards  upon  a  table  which  bore  the  remains  of 
a  meagre  lunch.  The  bed  had  been  made,  and  the  bril- 
liantly coloured  spread  was  over  it,  but  the  studio  was 
untidy  and  unswept.  The  early  dusk  was  darkening  it, 


134.  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

and  the  whole  place  had  a  dispirited  air  which  chilled  the 
visitor  to  the  heart. 

"I'm  not  going  to  excuse  myself,"  continued  Patricia, 
briskly,  to  cover  her  shrinking.  "I'm  a  beast,  and  I 
know  it,  and  I'm  sorry.  Don't  be  hard  on  me.  I've 
been  having  a  rushing  time.  How  are  you?" 

Amy  looked  at  her  sourly,  and  Patricia  was  shocked 
to  see  how  thoroughly  ill  she  seemed.  There  was  in- 
creased discontent  in  her  expression,  and  the  unkempt 
air  she  wore  showed  that  Amy  was  taking  no  care  of 
herself  or  of  her  person. 

"I've  seen  you;  and  I've  heard  about  you,"  Amy  said. 

"I  hope  I  looked  nice."  Patricia  was  being  painfully 
cheeky,  because  she  was  afraid.  She  had  never  been  so 
afraid  as  she  had  been  since  her  parting  with  Harry. 
"Are  you  all  right  ?"  The  question  was  not  merely  per- 
functory: it  was  drawn  from  her  by  real  pity. 

"No.  I'm  not.  Patricia,  I  feel  perfectly  awful.  Not 
with  you — everything.  I  can't  work,  I  can't  do  any- 
thing. I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do.  I  feel  desperate." 

"What's  been  happening?"  Full  of  concern,  Patricia 
turned  from  throwing  her  mackintosh  over  a  chair,  and 
regarded  Amy  with  eyes  in  which  contempt  and  dread 
mingled  with  her  sympathy. 

"Nothing's  been  happening.  That's  just  it.  /  can't 
painL  I  never  could  paint.  It's  all  ridiculous.  Ridic- 
ulous!" The  words  were  blurted  out  in  a  breathless 
voice  of  pain.  "I'm  in  hell !" 

And  with  that  Amy  began  to  cry.  Patricia  put  an 
arm  round  her,  and  felt  the  poor  creature  sobbing.  But 
no  tears  came ;  the  sobs  were  long  drawn  and  agonised ; 
and  Amy  could  not  weep. 

"And  nobody's  come  near  you!"  murmured  Patricia, 
stricken  with  conscience.  "Oh,  you  poor  thing.  You  poor 
thing!"  Amy  jerked  herself  free,  dabbing  her  eyes  with 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  135 

a  handkerchief  that  had  been  soiled  with  paint.  She 
stood  there  all  puckered,  terribly  hostile  to  consolation. 

"Don't!"  she  choked.  "I  can't  stand  being  pawed! 
All  the  damned  fools  in  the  world  have  come.  Damn 
them!  Grinning  and  .  .  .  Damn!"  She  began  to 
blow  her  nose  and  to  wipe  her  eyes,  looking  inexpressibly 
forlorn  in  her  little  linen  dress  without  a  waist.  It  was 
a  piteous  sight.  An  old  woman  stood  there,  facing  bit- 
ter knowledge.  Patricia  could  see  that  Amy's  face  was 
swollen  with  crying.  She  was  evidently  in  a  state  of 
wretched  misery,  and  yet  what  could  be  done?  Noth- 
ing! Desiring  pity,  comfort,  sympathy,  Amy  could 
yield  herself  to  none  of  these,  and  her  hysterical  scorn 
for  them  was  devastating.  There  was  a  long  silence, 
awkward  and  increasingly  embarrassed.  Patricia  stared 
downward,  biting  her  lip,  oppressed  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  her  helplessness.  When  she  spoke  she  could 
hear  her  own  words,  and  her  false  voice,  and  the  empti- 
ness of  her  emotion. 

"You'd  better  go  away  for  a  holiday,"  she  suggested. 
"Go  down  to  Cornwall." 

"No."  Amy  jerked  with  impatient  unhappiness.  She 
was  like  a  desperate  animal  that  snarls  at  a  rescuer.  "I 
don't  want  to  do  anything.  I  don't  want  to  see  any- 
body." She  controlled  herself  with  a  fierce  effort,  mov- 
ing a  few  steps  this  way  and  that,  and  smoking  furiously, 
until  the  cigarette  was  glowing  and  burning  her  lips. 
For  a  time  during  this  paroxysm  of  fury  there  was 
silence;  and  then  Amy  went  on  in  a  curious  dry  disin- 
terested voice:  "Sit  down,  Patricia.  Tell  me  what 
you've  been  doing.  No,  I'm  all  right.  I'll  stand  up. 
I  can't  bear  to  keep  still.  Got  a  cigarette?"  She  lighted 
the  fresh  one  from  her  burning  stump,  in  the  same 
grievous  way  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece  and  again 
starting  erect  with  nervous  lack  of  self-control;  and 


136  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

every  now  and  then  she  was  shaken  by  a  sob.  Without 
waiting  for  Patricia's  narrative,  Amy  went  on  viciously : 
"That  brute  Felix  has  been  spiteful  about  me — an<i  I 
don't  care.  I  don't  care!  I'd  like  to  kill  him — all  of 
them.  All  these  grinning  apes.  ...  I  know  I  can't 
paint.  I'm  no  good  at  it.  I  never  shall  be  any  good. 
Well?  What's  it  to  do  with  them?  They're  all  as 
glad  .  .  .  because  I'm  a  woman.  That's  what  it  is. 
What  it  comes  down  to  is  naked  sex  jealousy.  I  know. 
I've  known  it  all  the  time.  And  I've  gone  on,  pretend- 
ing to  believe  it,  pretending  I  was  taken  in.  I  wasn't. 
They  thought  I  didn't  know  they  laughed  at  me.  Well, 
I  did.  And  it's  I  who  laugh  at  them.  I  despise  them. 
I'm  no  good;  but  they're  no  good,  either!  And  I've 
told  them  so.  There's  that  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  had  grown  louder  and  more  hysterical  as 
she  progressed.  Patricia  stood  rooted,  quite  overcome 
by  this  torrential  violence  of  anger  and  chagrin  and  rev- 
elation. But  Amy's  voice  changed  again.  Almost  be- 
seechingly, she  turned  to  her  friend. 

"But  what  am  I  to  do,  Patricia?  I've  spent  all  this 
money — pounds  and  pounds  of  it — and  worked  and 
worked  and  worked;  and  kept  on  and  on,  hoping  .  .  . 
refusing  to  see."  Then,  suddenly  again  out  of  all  con- 
trol, she  shouted.  "And  it's  no  good!  D'you  see?  It's 
no  good!"  The  supipressed  rage  in  her  voice  was  as  if 
saturated  with  the  bitter  tears  which  she  could  not  shed. 
The  tears  started  to  Patricia's  eyes  in  sympathy.  She 
was  suffused  with  conscience-stricken  loyalty. 

"Where's  Jack?"  she  demanded,  fiercely.  "What's 
he  doing?" 

"Jack !"  It  was  almost  a  scream.  "God !  I  hate  the 
sight  of  him.  Hate  the  sound  of  his  rusty  voice." 

"D'you  see  him  ?" 

"Do  I  not!"     Amy  was  concentrated  scorn.     "Every 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  137 

evening!     He  comes  to  cheer  me  up;  and  I  could  kill 
him,  I'm  so  bored!     He's  driving  me  mad!" 

Patricia  made  a  little  sound  with  her  tongue.  Here, 
if  ever,  was  the  occasion  for  Jack  to  be  strong,  to  con- 
trol matters.  He  must  be  stupid — stupid!  She  shook 
her  head,  frowning. 

"Amy,  dear;  it's  such  a  pity  for  you  to  be  making 
yourself  ill  like  this.  Couldn't  you  .  .  ." 

"I'm  gloating  in  it!"  came  Amy's  shrill  interruption. 
"I'm  enjoying  it.  It's  not  often  a  woman  comes  up 
against  the  sex  war  as  clearly  as  this.  If  it  had  been  a 
man — oh,  very  different.  They'd  have  stopped  me. 
They'd  have  criticised  me  sick.  They'd  have  had  no 
more  consideration  for  my  feelings  than  for  a  dog's 
feelings.  But  I'm  a  woman — to  be  teased  and  lured  and 
flattered  and  laughed  at.  What  d'you  suppose  all  the 
praise  of  woman  is?  You  see  us  praised.  Yes,  and 
-*why?  To  keep  us  quiet.  Like  giving  sweets  to  a  baby. 
(\Praise  is  our  comforter.  It's  not  meant.  A  man's 
/  given  a  chance  to  learn  that  he's  a  fool.  We're  not. 
/  We're  up  against  honeyed  lies.  It's  cotton-wool  every- 
where, for  us,  until  we're  broken  by  it.  And  all  the 
time  they're  laughing — sniggering  at  us  behind  our 
backs.  They  don't  care.  They  fool  us  to  the  top  of 
our  bent.  They  praise  our  daubs  and  our  abortions  of 
books ;  and  to  themselves  they're  doubled  up  with  laugh- 
ter. That's  what  woman's  freedom  means.  That's 
what  equality  of  the  sexes  means.  It  means  broken 
hearts  for  women.  Broken  hearts  for  bloody  failures! 
Oh,  my  God,  my  God,  my  heart  will  break!" 


VI 


She  began  once  more  convulsively  to  sob;  and  Pat- 
ricia, who  was  now  herself  white  and  shaken  as  the  re- 


138  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

suit  of  this  tirade,  was  stricken  with  fear  for  her  reason. 
These  ghastly,  tearing  sobs  were  unbearable.  They 
echoed  in  the  lofty  studio,  rising,  sometimes  almost  to 
the  pitch  of  screams.  For  ten  minutes  they  lasted,  and 
then,  gradually,  with  returns  and  relaxations  of  violence, 
Amy  became  quiet,  and  lay  on  her  bed,  drying  her  eyes. 
Long  afterwards  she  began  to  talk  in  what  was  very 
nearly  her  ordinary  voice. 

"There,  that's  enough,"  she  said.  "I'm  a  fool. 
You're  bad  for  me,  Patricia.  You  make  me  lose  my 
head.  You  look  so  kind  and  pretty,  and  as  if  you  under- 
stood, which  of  course  you  don't  in  the  least.  No,  if 
Jack  was  any  good  to  me,  I'd  marry  him  at  once  just  to 
get  out  of  it.  But  a  man  who  bores  you  is  njgjgxxL  I 
should  leave  him  on  the  tram  somewhere,  poor  fool  that 
he  is.  It's  no  good.  We're  all  alone,  Patricia.  Each 
of  us.  You  think  you're  not " 

"I  know  I  am"  swiftly  corrected  Patricia. 

"Oho!  So  you're  getting  it,  too.  We  all  do,  sooner 
or  later ;  and  you're  the  sort  of  pretty  little  fool  who  gets 
caught  by  her  vanity.  I've  done  it.  You'll  have  a  bad 
time  before  you're  done.  Yes,  now  I  look  at  you  I  see 
you're  a  bit  peaky.  I  suppose  it's  Harry  Greenlees. 
Harry  Greenlees,  Good  God!"  Amy  laughed  with  a 
strained  satirical  note.  "Well,  I  warned  you.  I  could 
have  told  you  about  all  sorts  of  girls  he's  treated  the 
same " 

Patricia's  heart  stopped  beating  for  an  instant. 

"All  sorts  of  girls?"  she  cried.     "What  d'you  mean?" 

Amy  looked  at  her  sharply,  her  face  transformed,  al- 
most venomous.  "Well,  little  Jean  Cowley  went  away 
with  him.  It  was  all  over  in  a  month.  They  hardly 
notice  each  other  now.  She's  through  it.  He's  been 
the  lover  of  half-a-dozen  girls  I  know " 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  139 

"I  don't  believe  you!"  cried  Patricia,  perfectly  white 
with  anger. 

Amy  looked  back  with  a  superciliousness  as  great  as 
her  own. 

"Jean  Cowley  told  me  all  about  it  herself.  I'm  not  a 
liar.  Penelope  Gorran  .  .  .  Phyllis  Mickle.  .  .  ." 

"Amy!" 

"I  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

"Not  whom  you're  talking  to,  though !"  cried  Patricia. 

Amy  became  for  the  first  time  really  intense.  She 
rose  from  the  bed  and  came  across  the  studio,  and  Pat- 
ricia could  see  her  red  eyes  and  the  terrible  white  face 
all  disfigured  with  angry  grief. 

"You're  not  his  mistress,  are  you?"  demanded  Amy. 
"You  poor  fool!" 

How  far  Patricia  had  travelled  since  their  previous 
talk  about  girls  and  their  lovers.  She  was  not  now 
stricken  with  shame  at  such  a  suggestion.  She  was 
merely  indignant. 

"Be  quiet,  Amy !"  she  cried.    "You  can't  talk  like  that !" 

Amy  gave  a  short  laugh,  raising  her  arms  in  the  air 
in  a  gesture  of  offensive  marvel. 

"Beautiful!"  she  said.     "Beautiful!" 

As  they  faced  each  other,  both  desperately  angry,  with 
opposed  glances  of  hostility,  breathing  quickly  in  their 
common  agitation,  there  came  a  ringing  at  the  bell  of 
Amy's  studio.  Slowly  the  blood  rose  and  flooded  Pat- 
ricia's cheeks.  She  knew  who  was  without.  All  her 
anger  died.  Its  place  was  taken  by  fear.  She  was 
paralysed,  knowing  that  the  moment  she  had  dreaded  was 
upon  her. 

vii 

Harry  entered  the  studio  with  impetuosity,  and  his 
height  and  energy  made  it  a  normal-sized  room. 


140  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

He  made  no  pretence  of  having  come  to  see  Amy,  but 
as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  Patricia  he  addressed 
her. 

"I  thought  I  might  find  you  here,"  he  said,  and 
stopped.  His  eyes  embraced  her,  and  Patricia's  heart 
leapt.  Then,  uncontrollably,  she  turned  away  while 
Harry  looked  at  Amy.  "Sorry  to  be  unceremonious; 
but  I'd  been  to  Patricia's,"  he  said  cheerfully.  "Found 
she  was  out.  How  are  you,  Amy?  I  hear  you've  been 
having  a  fracas  with  old  Felix.  Poor  old  Felix!  I 
wonder  how  he's  feeling  now,  eh?  Jolly  rough  on  him 
— what?  Now  I  want  to  get  hold  of  Patricia,  because 
we're  going  to  a  football  match  on  Saturday,  and  didn't 
fix  up  a  time  of  meeting.  You  don't  mind,  do  you  ?" 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Amy,  sarcastically.  "Ignore  me. 
Use  my  studio  as  your  own.  Interrupt  a  conversation 
with  the  greatest  assurance " 

"Thanks,"  answered  Harry,  not  troubling  to  be  polite. 
"I  will."  His  blue  eyes  had  their  steel;  and  his  cheer- 
ful face  its  grimness.  "Now,  Patricia  .  .  ." 

"Now,  Harry."  Patricia  was  recovering  her  nerve. 
At  his  insincerity,  his  rudeness  to  Amy,  her  spirits  had 
risen.  Whatever  secret  weaknesses  her  will  might  hint, 
she  was  sparkling  with  temper.  He  had  entered  a  bully ; 
well,  she  would  not  be  bullied.  She  saw  the  difference 
of  his  demeanour  to  Amy,  whom  he  disliked,  and  to  her- 
self, whom  he  loved.  For  how  long  would  his  behaviour 
remain  different?  In  Jean  Cowley's  case  it  had  been  a 
month.  "Now,  Harry,"  said  Patricia. 

Harry's  manner  softened.  His  tone  was  lowered. 
His  possessiveness  was  subtly  mingled  with  appeal.  He 
took  a  step  forward,  a  big  figure  with  bared  teeth  and 
that  ready  smile.  There  was  no  doubt  of  the  effect  he 
had  on  Patricia,  She  felt  herself  small,  weak,  laugh- 
ing. .  .  .  And  yet  not  now  yielding.  A  day  ago  she 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  141 

would  have  been  yielding,  tasting  all  the  sweetness  of 
surrender  to  such  masterful  treatment. 

"Put  your  coat  on,"  pleaded  Harry.  He  wore  none 
himself.  "I  want  you  to  come  and  have  a  meal  with, 
me." 

"It's  barely  tea-time,"  objected  Patricia. 

"All  the  better.     We'll  have  tea  and  dinner  as  well." 

They  both  ignored  Amy,  who  stood  angrily  staring  at 
them. 

"Why  should  she?"  cried  Amy.     "What  cheek!" 

Harry  turned  upon  Amy,  and  laughed  at  her. 

"Hullo,  Amy!"  he  answered.  "You  there?  Sorry. 
Look  here,  I  know  it's  cheek;  and  I  apologise.  But  I 
must  talk  to  Patricia,  d'you  see.  Our  last  talk  was  in- 
terrupted." 

"Patricia's  talks  seem  to  be  subject  to  interruption. 
Her  talk  with  me  was  interrupted." 

"I  know.  By  me,"  Harry  said,  charmingly.  "It's 
too  bad." 

Patricia  was  mechanically  putting  on  her  mackintosh 
as  they  squabbled.  She  smoothed  her  hair;  and  a 
curious  excitement  which  had  risen  in  her  was  trans- 
formed into  intrepidity.  So  may  a  man  in  danger  be- 
come aware  of  new  alert  vitality.  She  heard  the  re- 
marks without  observing  their  content,  so  engrossed  was 
she  with  thoughts  of  her  own. 

"How's  Rhoda?"  asked  Amy  suddenly.  It  came  like 
a  stab,  and  like  a  stab  was  Patricia's  glance  at  Harry. 
His  own  glance  towards  her  was  as  sharp,  as  keen. 

"Very  well,  I  think,"  said  Harry,  in  a  patient  voice. 

"She's  away,  isn't  she?" 

"I  really  don't  know." 

Amy  again  gave  that  strained  laugh  of  sarcasm. 

"Oho!"  she  laughed.     "Harry!" 

Harry  held  out  his  hand  to  Amy,  seeing  that  Patricia 


142  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

was  ready.  Amy  ignored  the  hand.  She  never  shook 
hands  with  anybody.  It  had  always  seemed  to  her  more 
masculine  and  professional  not  to  do  so. 

"You  ready?"  Harry  asked  Patricia. 

"Awkward  questions,"  murmured  Amy,  almost  un- 
heard. "Well,  cheerio,  Patricia.  Perhaps  one  day  we 
shall  meet  again.  I  shall  be  here,  I  expect." 

"Do  try  to  go  away,"  whispered  Patricia.  "Really 
try.  It's  so  bad  for  you  to  be  alone."  Harry  was  out- 
side the  door  by  now,  and  the  parting  was  solitary. 
"Try  to  go  away — just  for  change  of  thought  and 
scene." 

Amy  shook  her  head — almost  with  a  shudder. 

"Now  go,"  she  said.  "Harry's  waiting.  And  Pat- 
ricia— what  I  told  you  was  true.  D'you  see?  Not 
spiteful." 

"I  know.  I  know."  Patricia  pressed  her  hand  and 
was  gone. 

viii 

Outside,  in  the  street,  Harry  was  waiting. 

"What  a  sight  that  woman  is!  Silly  little  fool!"  he 
explained.  "She's  a  cat,  too.  Did  you  notice  that?" 

"Look  here,  Harry,"  said  Patricia,  abruptly.  "I  don't 
want  to  listen  to  abuse  of  Amy.  I'm  sorry  for  her." 

"Oh,  God,  so  am  I!"  cried  Harry,  lightly. 

"No,  I'm  really  sorry.  You  don't  understand."  With 
sudden  indignation,  she  concluded :  "You  couldn't  ever 
understand.  You  don't  know  enough." 

"Well  ?"  He  was  quite  cool.  "I  see  you're  in  a  rage 
about  something." 

"I'm  not  in  a  rage  about  anything ;  but  I  do  resent  your 
coming  to  the  studio  as  if  I  belonged  to  you.  You've 
g-ot  no  right  to  do  that.  I  came  out  because  I  didn't 
want  a  row  before  Amy." 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  143 

"Oh!  A  row!"  Harry  turned  a  laughing,  coaxing- 
face  to  her,  very  sure  of  himself.  His  hand  was  at  her 
arm ;  but  Patricia  was  completely  mistress  of  herself. 

"Yes,  a  row,"  she  cried,  her  eyes  sparkling  afresh. 
"Let's  go  and  have  tea  somewhere." 

Harry's  face  was  also  alight.  If  Patricia  had  temper, 
so,  it  appeared,  had  he.  They  were  matched. 

"That  was  exactly  my  idea,"  he  said  impudently. 
"Let's!" 

They  walked  through  into  Oxford  Street  and  joined 
the  crowd  there.  Such  teashops  as  the  one  at  which 
Patricia  had  lunched  were  unsuitable.  They  were  at 
this  hour  too  crowded  for  conversation.  As  a  result  the 
journey  was  for  a  time  without  result;  but.  at  last  they 
came  to  a  big  restaurant  at  which  few  visitors  to  the 
West  End  imagined  that  such  a  thing  as  tea  would  be 
served.  Here  it  was  that,  surrounded  by  innumerable 
empty  tables,  and  at  a  distance  from  half-a-dozen  pensive 
waiters,  amid  gilded  mouldings  and  huge  mirrors  and 
imposing  candelabra,  Harry  and  Patricia  seated  them- 
selves for  their  talk. 

"Now!"  cried  Harry.  "Tea,  crumpets,  cakes.  No 
crumpets?  Toast."  He  instructed  the  waiter  with  the 
assurance  of  one  who  has  entertained  since  the  days  of 
undergraduate  life.  Having  seen  the  waiter  depart  upon 
his  errand,  he  then  cleared  a  vase  of  flowers  from  the 
table,  and  moved  a  dish  which  stood  in  his  way.  Then, 
with  wrists  upon  the  table,  he  stared  at  Patricia.  "Dar- 
ling!" he  said.  "I  seem  to  feel  most  at  home  with  you 
when  you're  in  a  rage.  There's  a  little  nick  .  .  . 
see.  .  .  ." 

"Never  mind  the  little  nick,"  said  Patricia,  sternly. 
Her  heart  had  begun  to  sink  again.  "I  wasn't  going  to 
talk  to  you  like  this;  but  I  must."  Harry  waved  his 
hand,  as  if  giving  her  free  permission  to  change  her  mind 


144-  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

without  restraint.  "I  want  to  ask  you  several  things. 
You  needn't  answer  if  you  don't  want  to.  ..." 

"You  want  to  ask  me  about  Rhoda !"  suggested  Harry, 
his  smile  deepening.  There  was  no  quelling  his  easy 
confidence. 

"That  was  one  thing,"  admitted  Patricia,  also  in  no 
way  superficially  discomposed,  although  her  heart  was 
struggling. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  now,  Rhoda — mind,  I'm  very 
fond  of  her — is  nothing  at  all  to  me." 

"Has  she  been?" 

"Oh !  Oh !"  He  protested  at  such  a  demand.  "No, 
she  hasn't  been.  I  admit  that  she  may  think  ...  I'd 
better  put  it  like  this :  she  thinks  she's  in  love  with  me." 

"I  see.  Then,  the  other  thing  I  wanted  to  ask  is  this. 
[You  see,  I'm  not  sure  if  I'm  in  love  with  you  or  not." 

"You  soon  would  be,"  he  interrupted.  "Sure,  I  mean. 
I'm  in  love  with  you." 

"That  was  just  it.     You've  been  in  love  before." 

"Lots  of  times.  Never  as  much  as  this,  Patricia!" 
He  stretched  his  hands  towards  her.  Patricia  hesitated. 
Then  she  shook  her  head. 

"You  mustn't  joggle  me,"  she  said.  "I've  got  to  find 
out  for  myself." 

"Well,  was  that  all  you  wanted  to  ask  me?  If  so,  I'll 
tell  you  something.  You've  got  the  most  beautiful  eyes, 
Patricia;  and  your  little  mouth  changes  every " 

"That  wasn't  all,"  cried  Patricia,  and  stammered,  the 
warmth  rising  to  her  cheeks.  She  could  see  him  so  near, 
and  his  ardent  glance  and  air  of  conscious  and  indulgent 
charm  were  intoxicating  to  her ;  and  she  was  shot  through 
and  through  with  the  knowledge  that  Harry  could  be 
brutal  and  harsh  and  tyrannical,  that  he  could  be  brusque 
and  unfeeling;  that  the  thick  stream  of  emotion  which 
she  was  conscious  of  recognising  in  him  made  for  satiety 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LITE 

and  not  for  the  delicate,  whimsical,  pervasive  love  she 
craved.  She  had  been  going  to  ask  him  other  things — 
things  which  it  was  essential  to  her  peace  of  mind  both 
now  and  in  the  future  that  she  should  know;  and  she 
could  not  do  so.  They,  whether  she  had  a  right  to  them 
or  not,  were  all  of  no  account  beside  her  certainty.  He 
was  a  stranger  at  heart,  who  should  have  been  master 
of  her  finest  and  truest  consciousness.  Patricia  paled, 
her  hands  sharply  together.  "No!"  she  cried.  "I  can't 
marry  you.  It's  too  great  a  risk.  I  can't  do  it!" 

"And  who  on  earth,"  said  Harry,  "who  on  earth  asked 
you  to  marry  me?" 

ix 

Patricia  felt  her  heart  jump  and  then  turn  cold.  She 
stared  at  him. 

"Oh,"  she  stammered.  "Oh  .  .  .  then  .  .  .  then 
that's  all  right,  isn't  it?  I  thought  you  wanted  me  to. 
I  .  .  ."  She  gave  a  small  nervous  laugh.  "What  do 
you  mean,  then?" 

"Look  here,"  said  Harry.  "I'm  in  love  with  you,  and 
you're  in  love  with  me." 

"No,"  said  Patricia.     "I'm  clear  about  that  now." 

"You're  not.  You're  in  love  with  me."  Harry  was 
overbearing  in  his  confidence.  His  face  had  not  lost 
its  beaming  affection  and  good  nature,  but  the  power  to 
charm  her  was  vanished.  "And  so  you  think  of  mar- 
riage. Well,  there's  no  question  of  that,  because  I  know 
something  about  myself  and  about  you.  It  wouldn't 
last.  How  could  it?  Love's  a  rapture." 

"We  don't  mean  the  same  thing,"  replied  Patricia, 
steadily,  meeting  his  eyes  frankly,  and  with  defiance. 
The  coldness  which  had  possessed  her  on  the  previous 
evening  was  reinforced  by  a  pride  that  was  insane  in 
its  egotism. 


14-6  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"When  people  say  'Love  and  Marriage'  they're  not 
thinking  of  us.  Marriage  belongs  to  the  days  of 
women's  economic  dependence,"  he  asserted 

"It  belongs  to  the  idea  of  constancy." 

"When  a  woman  was  economically  dependent,"  pur- 
sued Harry,  ignoring  the  interruption,  "she  said  'what 
will  you  give  for  my  love?  Will  you  support  me  for 
life?*  That's  altered  now.  She  gives  love  for  love." 

"And  when  she's  broken?"  Patricia's  anger  began 
to  manifest  itself.  "Do  you  think  other  men  think  as 
you  do?  I  mean,  when  they're  offered  something 
soiled?" 

"Soiled?"  Harry's  astonishment  was  marked.  "That 
doesn't  arise." 

Patricia  controlled  herself. 

"To  me  it  does,"  she  said,  gravely.     "Not  to  you." 

"Good  Lord !  I'd  no  idea  you  were  such  a  little  .  .  . 
puritan!"  cried  Harry.  Into  his  air  of  unconquerable 
charm  came  the  faintest  sneer;  but  it  was  not  strong 
enough  to  wound.  He  was  genuinely  perturbed  and  un- 
able to  fathom  her  objection  to  something  which  for 
himself  was  a  standard  of  conduct. 

"Yes,  you  were  mistaken,  weren't  you?"  said  Patri- 
cia. "You  didn't  know  I  was  a  ...  prig!" 

"No,  no!"  He  was  handsome  in  his  protest.  "It's 
a  question  of  truth — of  sense.  Patricia,  it's  a  question 
of  purity.  The  delight  of  love  doesn't  last.  What  is 
the  good  of  pretending  that  it  does?  My  dear,  I  love 
you.  I'm  not  trying  to  seduce  you.  Never!" 

"My  dear  Harry,"  exclaimed  Patricia,  "you're  talk- 
ing to  the  wrong  person.  You  think  that  love  is  just  self-\ 
indulgence.  Perhaps  you're  right.  You  may  be  right. 
I  can't  tell.  But  you  see  I  don't  think  like  that.  I  ad- 
mit that  I  .  .  .  *  She  could  not  proceed.  "I'm  not 
even  thinking  of  sacrifices.  I'm  thinking  of  happiness." 


A  DAY  IN  PATRICIA'S  LIFE  147 

"You're  refusing  it,  my  dear,"  said  Harry. 

"Then  it's  not  worth  having." 

He  turned  aside  with  brusqueness.  He  even 
shrugged.  It  was  in  his  case  not  viciousness,  not  de- 
liberate sophistry.  He  had  merely  mistaken  Patricia's 
readiness  to  accept  his  standards.  To  Harry  these  were 
the  common  sense  of  love.  He  was  not  at  all  unclean. 
It  was  astonishment  at  a  question  that  made  him  thus 
obtuse.  The  waiter  came  to  their  table  and  began  to 
spread  the  cups  and  plates  with  absorbed  deftness.  Pat- 
ricia, her  mind  elsewhere,  watched  him  with  constraint. 
When  once  the  waiter  had  gone,  she  said  breathlessly  to 
Harry : 

"Look  here,  Harry.  I  can't  eat  any  of  this.  It  would 
make  me  sick.  I'm  going.  I'm  sorry  to  .  .  ."  She 
rose  to  her  feet,  trembling.  Harry  rose  too,  master- 
fully. 

"Shut  up,  Patricia.  Sit  down,  and  don't  .  .  .  Look 
here,  we'll  talk  about  it.  I'll  make  you  see  my  point  of 
view.  I'm  not  trying  to  .  .  ." 

"I'm  going.  You  eat  it.  I'm  ...  I  don't 
want  .  .  ." 

Patricia  stood  there,  her  eyes  stern  but  loving;  re- 
proachful and  contemptuous.  There  was  still  a  moment ; 
and  it  passed.  She  turned  swiftly,  and  left  Harry  stand- 
ing by  the  table.  He  called  once ;  but  his  fear  of  attract- 
ing attention  in  a  public  place  held  him  there.  It  was 
the  one  thing  which  would  have  restrained  him.  Sick 
at  heart,  but  with  her  head  erect,  Patricia  walked  quickly 
out  of  the  restaurant  and  into  the  street.  She  felt  that 
her  heart  was  breaking. 


CHAPTER  NINE:  MISCHIEF 


FOR  two  days  Patricia  kept  within  doors.  She  was 
broken  and  weary.  For  a  time  it  was  as  though 
she  had  lost  all  the  pride  which  had  sustained  her  at 
the  parting  with  Harry.  She  longed  to  see  him,  longed 
to  beg  for  anything  at  all  at  his  hands;  and  was  re- 
strained only  by  some  timid  delicacy,  some  fear,  some 
paralysis  of  the  will.  The  days  were  spent  in  sitting  in 
her  little  front  room,  staring  apathetically  before  her, 
or  without  seeing  them  at  the  fire  and  the  murky  sky. 
The  nights  were  even  more  torturing,  for  if  Patricia 
slept  at  all  it  was  to  dream  hideously ;  while  her  wakeful 
tossings  were  almost  unendurable.  Harry,  of  course, 
came  to  the  house ;  but  Lucy  was  staunch,  and  he  had  been 
sent  away  with  elaborate  lies.  Never  until  this  moment 
had  Patricia  understood  how  much  warmth  and  gener- 
osity lay  behind  the  pink  smudge  of  Lucy's  face.  She 
had  been  forced  into  half-confidence;  and  Lucy  had  un- 
derstood the  whole.  At  first,  shrewdly,  she  had  taken 
a  consoling  view.  "Expect  it'll  come  right,"  she  had 
said,  out  of  a  deep  knowledge  of  feminine  psychology. 
"You  feel  queer  now.  You're  all  of  a  twitter.  Then 
you'll  want  'im,  and  go  out  and  meet  'im  somewhere  on 
the  sly.  And — "  But  she  had  very  quickly  discovered 
that  the  break  was  serious.  "Ah!"  she  had  said.  "All 
for  the  best,  you  and  'im  bein'  so  fair,  with  blue  eyes 
and  all.  I  expect  the  babies  would  have  been  little  nig- 
gers." She  had  sworn,  refusing  Harry's  tips,  that  Pat- 
ricia had  gone  into  the  country,  leaving  no  address.  Her 

148 


MISCHIEF  149 

pink  face  had  glowed  with  the  most  righteous  honesty. 
A  letter  had  followed,  a  long  letter  full  of  explanations; 
and  Patricia,  although  it  had  deeply  moved  her,  had  left  it 
without  acknowledgment.  A  further  letter,  asking  for 
at  least  an  interview,  had  been  similarly  ignored. 

She  was  quite  at  a  loss.  Harry  had  meant  so  much 
to  her,  both  in  fact  and  in  her  happy  dreams  of  love,  that 
she  was  miserable  without  him.  She  knew  that  her 
silence  was  inexcusable;  that  it  would  make  him  think 
her  merely  the  little  suburban  prig  of  his  supposition. 
But  the  facts  which  were  turned  over  and  over  in  her 
mind — the  sudden  intuitions  which  had  been  the  occa- 
sion of  the  crisis,  his  own  attitude  to  marriage,  the 
illuminations  provided  by  Amy — were  devastating. 
Patricia  could  not  deal  with  them.  They  were  too  much 
for  her.  At  times  she  tried  to  reason  with  herself.  Fear 
sprang  to  her  heart,  and  reduced  her  to  panic.  She  made 
an  attempt  even  to  analyse  her  own  sense  of  shock,  to 
say  that  it  was  stupid,  that  it  was  squeamish,  old-fash- 
ioned, babyish.  Useless !  The  truth  was .  more  bitter 
than  any  merely  cowardly  flinching.  Whatever  might 
be  her  feeling  in  the  future,  she  was  almost  hysterically 
determined  at  this  moment.  Her  mind  leapt  on  to 
blacker  thoughts  of  Harry,  and  recoiled  from  them.  All 
the  curious  exaggerations  of  wickedness  which  will  arise 
in  the  most  virgin  minds  tempted  her  own.  They  were 
repulsed.  She  was  not  yet  sophisticated  enough  to  be 
ready  to  believe  the  alarmist  suggestions  of  her  imagina- 
tion. 

At  last  she  wrote  to  Harry: 

"Dear  Harry :  I  was  silly  to  leave  you  under  a  wrong 
impression.  I  had  been  thinking  I  was  in  love  with  you ; 
and  then  I  had  suddenly  realised  that  I  couldn't  tnarry 
yoit.  I  wasn't  shocked  at  the  thought  that  you  only 


150  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

wanted  to  have  an  affair  with  me.  I  had  just  felt  that 
you  weren't  any  use  to  me,  and  that  I  wasn't  any  use 
to  you.  I  am  very  fond  of  you.  I  have  never  been  so 
attracted  to  any  one.  It  isn't  enough  for  me.  I  want 
lots  more.  Sorry,  Harry.  Patricia." 

To  this  letter  there  had  been  no  answer.  Harry,  evi- 
dently, was  lying  low. 

ii 

So  the  matter  stood,  and  Patricia  was  drowned  in  be- 
wilderment and  shame  for  as  long  as  her  first  mood 
lasted.  But  then  young  buoyancy  revived.  On  the 
third  night  she  slept,  and  her  dreams  were  sweeter.  On 
awakening  she  was  still  unhappy:  but  as  she  lay  in  bed 
and  her  little  thoughts  darted  about  like  shadows  of 
birds  she  had  suddenly  an  overwhelming  fit  of  arro- 
gance. 

"Pooh!"  cried  Patricia,  violently  throwing  back  the 
bedclothes.  She  stepped  out  of  bed  and  stood  there, 
yawning,  with  her  hands  clasped  behind  her  head,  and 
her  cheeks  resting  lightly  against  her  raised  arm.  Down- 
stairs Lucy  had  begun  her  strong  clouting  of  the  furni- 
ture. The  morning  was  still  grey.  And  as  she  stood 
there  Patricia  caught  a  movement  in  the  mirror  by  the 
window,  and  was  drawn  across  the  room  to  it.  In  the 
mirror's  depths  she  saw  her  own  sleepy  face;  her  little 
fall  of  hair,  her  soft  cheeks,  "two  witch's  eyes  above  a 
cherub's  mouth,"  and  the  beautiful  line  of  her  neck. 
"I'm.  pretty!"  she  said  to  herself.  "I'm  pretty,  and  I 
know  it.  I've  got  taste.  I've  got  brains.  Pooh!" 

And  with  that  she  went  back  to  bed,  to  await  the  ar- 
rival of  Lucy  with  the  hot  water.  Wave  after  wave  of 
arrogance  passed  through  her  in  healthy  reaction  to  her 
earlier  despair.  "Pm  better  oft  than  Amy,"  she  thought. 


MISCHIEF  151 

"I'm  cleverer  than  she  is — not  such  an  idiot.  Rhoda 
.  .  .  poor  thing!  Poor  thing  to  be  known  to  be  in  love, 
and  by  a  man  who  doesn't  care  for  you  at  all.  Unless 
he  made  it  up!  I  wonder!"  Did  men  pretend  some- 
times, as  girls  did,  that  they  were  loved?  She  expected 
so.  She  had  known  a  girl  who  thought  all  men  were  in 
love  with  her,  who  thought  a  man  must  either  love  her 
or  dislike  her.  Well,  Patricia  did  not  believe  in  that 
assumption.  She  admitted  candidly  that,  although  they 
seemed  to  like  her,  all  the  men  she  knew  were  not  in 
love  with  herself.  "It's  very  funny,"  she  said,  rumin- 
ating. "People  in  love.  ...  I  suppose  there  are  all 
sorts  of  ways  of  being  in  love.  There's  Harry's  way, 
which  is  just  self-indulgence.  There's  Jack  Penton's 
way,  which  is  silly  devotion  to  somebody  who  doesn't 
care  that!  There's  ...  oh,  there's  lots  of  ways.  And 
my  way — or  my  thought  of  way  .  .  .  Perhaps  it's 
only  .  .  .  Pooh!  If  I  don't  love  a  man  I  needn't 
marry  him.  You  can  do  all  sorts  of  things,  if  you 
aren't  one  ot  these  silly  little  creatures  who  give  in.  I'd 
live  with  him — if  I  loved  him.  I  don't  love  Harry: 
that's  why  I  wouldn't.  .  .  ."  This,  however,  was  bra- 
vado; and  she  passed  on,  ignoring  the  gross  lapse  into 
indelicate  falsehood.  "But  he'd  have  to  love  me  better 
than  himself.  That's  it!  I've  got  to  be  loved;  notj 
just  wanted.  I've  got  to  be  needed,  and  adored,  and) 
passionately  wanted,  and  respected,  and  understood. 
Then  I  should  be  sure,  and  then  I'd  give  back  love  for 
love — full  measure.  I'm  too  good  for  _this  ordinary 
love — this  sort  of  'affair'  that  Harry  likes;  or  the  mar- 
riage that's  like  taking  a  situation — 'permanency.'  I'm 
too  good  for  it.  I  need  half-a-dozen  husbands  to  do  me 
justice.  I  don't  have  to  take  what  I  can  get.  I'm  .  .  . 
I'm  Patricia  Quin!" 

She  was  filled  with  supreme  egotism. 


152  THE  THREE  LOVERS 


in 


When  little  Jacky  Dean  called  for  her  on  the  Saturday 
evening,  Patricia  was  still  full  of  her  healing  arrogance. 
She  greeted  Jacky  rather  sweepingly,  because  he  was 
a  young  man  who  invited  disdain;  and  in  two  minutes 
had  received  fresh  reassurance  as  to  her  superiority  to- 
all  other  girls.  Jacky  was,  in  fact,  the  open-mouthed 
fair  young  man  with  whom  she  had  found  herself  left 
at  Topping's.  He  was  always  perfectly  dressed,  because 
he  was  wealthy  and  without  occupation;  and  he  was  by 
way  of  being  infatuated  with  Patricia.  He  was  always 
at  her  service,  always  eager  to  stand  a  dinner  or  a  dance, 
or  a  revue  or  musical  play.  Conversation  beyond  the 
"top-hole"  stage  he  was  incapable  of  reaching;  but  he 
was  very  dog-like,  and  looked  sweetly  pink  and  golden; 
and  his  dancing  had  improved;  and  he  was  never  any 
strain,  as  he  made  no  demands  at  all,  but  merely  sought 
to  be  useful  and  obliging.  He  had  two  thousand 
pounds  a  year,  with  the  prospect  of  more  when  an  elderly 
aunt  died;  and  he  would  proudly  have  married  Patricia 
on  the  morrow.  No  wonder,  therefore,  that  she  was 
kind  to  him  in  a  disdainful  way,  and  refrained  from 
hurting  his  feelings.  Nothing  would  have  made  her 
marry  him — the  thought  of  doing  so  had  never  entered 
her  mind;  but  she  found  his  devotion  rather  pathetic  at 
times,  and  always,  in  spite  of  the  discipline  Jacky  re- 
ceived, most  timidly  fervent. 

Jacky  was  subservient  by  nature.  He  had  attached 
himself  to  the  purlieus  of  the  stage  door  as  soon  as  he 
had  become  a  man;  he  was  a  feature  of  river  parties  in 
the  summer  and  every  other  sort  of  party  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  year.  In  physique  he  was  a  weed;  but 
there  was  nothing  noticeably  the  matter  with  him,  be- 
yond an  amiable  lack  of  brain.  He  was  everybody's 


MISCHIEF  153 

pet,  as  one  who  would  never  grow  up  and  who  never 
minded  paying.  Pleasure,  in  Jacky's  case,  was  no  fe- 
verishly-sought goal,  but  a  state  of  being  so  customary 
as  to  limit  his  interests.  His  wan  little  face,  with  its 
air  of  constant  innocence,  was  still  that  of  a  child. 
Whatever  adventures  he  might  have  had  in  connection 
with  the  stage  door  had  left  him  unscarred.  He  was 
still  the  delicious  babe  of  his  unripe  years.  Patricia 
found  him  easily  manageable ;  he  had  never  even  dared  to 
put  his  arm  round  her  in  a  taxicab,  although  obviously 
he  would  have  liked  to  venture  this  exploit.  She  had 
a  considerable  sense  of  power  when  she  was  in  his  com- 
pany, and  nothing  had  ever  occurred  to  weaken  it. 

Jacky's  idea  of  the  evening  was  dinner  in  the  West 
End,  salted  with  cocktails  in  plenty,  with  champagne, 
and  with  old  brandy.  Then  a  taxi  would  carry  them 
from  Regent  Street  to  South  Hampstead  in  a  fit  state 
to  enjoy  a  rowdy  dance,  during  which  Jacky,  laughing 
with  joy,  would  assist  the  band.  But  Patricia  checked 
his  enthusiasm.  On  no  account  could  she  risk  a  meet- 
ing with  Harry — she  even  dreaded  that  he  might  appear 
at  Monty's, — and  her  own  plan  was  less  ambitious.  It 
was  she  who  named  the  restaurant — an  obscure  place 
to  which  she  knew  Harry  would  never  think  of  going; 
and  Jacky  was  too  mild  of  spirit  to  resist.  They  went 
therefore  to  this  shabby  place — the  Axminster — where 
all  was  faded  cream  and  gold,  with  rusty  palms  and 
magenta  lamp-shades  and  artificial  flowers  and  vulgar 
mirrors  and  English  waiters.  It  is  true  that  Jacky's 
face  fell  at  sight  of  the  bill  of  fare,  and  still  more  at  the 
meagre  printed  wine  list  (with  alterations  in  a  crabbed 
handwriting),  but  in  the  midst  of  his  furtive  glance 
round  preparatory  to  suggestion  of  flight  he  was  diverted 
by  the  sound  of  a  popular  one-step  as  played  to  applause 
by  the  restaurant  orchestra.  He  subsided,  looking  with 


154  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

shallow-pated  amusement  at  all  the  respectable  men  and 
women  of  middle  age  who  sat  around  them.  If  Jacky's 
simple-minded  ingenuity  in  the  matter  of  painting  the 
restaurant  red  came  to  nothing,  at  least,  as  Patricia 
could  tell,  he  was  perfectly  happy  to  be  dining  alone  with 
his  goddess;  and  the  meal  was  carried  through,  upon 
his  part,  with  a  silence  as  complete  as  lack  of  ideas  for 
conversation  could  make  it. 


IV 

Patricia  liked  Jacky.  Although  silly  and  lacking  in 
brains,  he  was  very  honest  and  very  good-natured.  When 
she  said  to  him  that  she  was  out  of  sorts,  and  wanted  to 
be  quiet,  he  did  not  become  fussy,  and  he  did  not  sulk. 
He  did  naturally  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do  in 
the  circumstances.  When  he  thought  of  anything  to 
say  he  said  it,  in  his  queer  unlettered  English ;  and  when 
he  had  nothing  at  all  to  say,  he  cheerfully  allowed  him- 
self to  be  silent.  There  was  no  difficulty  at  all.  Pat- 
ricia, although  she  was  in  such  a  state  of  advanced  con- 
ceit, had  one  sweep  of  comprehension;  and  she  was 
touched  to  the  point  of  moist  eyes  and  an  ejaculation. 

"You  are  a  sport,  Jacky!"  she  said,  impetuously. 

Jacky  glowed.  The  colour  came  creeping  up  from 
behind  his  tall  collar,  and  he  jerked  his  neck  out  of  the 
collar  with  a  nervous  movement,  as  of  one  whose  throat 
has  suddenly  become  swollen. 

"Er  .  .  .  Quite  all  right,"  he  said,  in  his  jargon. 
"Cheers;  and  all  that  .  .  ." 

No  more  was  said.  They  ploughed  a  way  unsuccess- 
fully through  an  ill-cooked  meal,  of  which  the  major 
part  was  encased  in  thicknesses  of  flour  and  water  which 
had  been  very  severely  fried. 

"Er  .  .  .  saw    old    Harry,"    presently    said    Jacky. 


MISCHIEF  155 

"Last  night — yesterday — I  forget.  He  ...  thought 
you  were  away,  or  something.  Thought  you'd  forgot- 
ten our  evening.  Jolly  glad  you  turned  up.  Er  .  .  . 
Must  have  been  your  .  .  ." 

"He's  not  coming,  is  he?"  Patricia's  head  was  down. 
She  was  struggling  to  remain  composed.  That  was 
what  this  meant:  wherever  she  went  she  would  see 
Harry,  would  hear  of  him.  And  she  knew  she  wanted 
to  see  him,  wanted  to  hear  of  him.  It  was  the  strangest 
sensation.  Harry  to  her  was  become  a  stranger;  she 
realised  that  she  knew  nothing  and  always  had  known 
nothing  of  his  heart.  But  all  the  time  she  was  deeply 
concerned  with  him.  He  was  a  stranger;  but  he  was 
the  only  stranger  she  knew  in  that  vast  crowd  of  strang- 
ers. Patricia  awaited  Jacky's  answer  with  dread. 

"I  forget  what  he  said,"  answered  Jacky,  slowly  and 
vaguely.  "No,  I  don't  think  he  could  come.  The  old 
fellow  was  ...  er  ...  some  jolly  old  thing  or  other. 
I  quite  forget.'* 

Patricia  nodded.  She  must  accustom  herself  to  all 
this  sort  of  thing.  She  had  only  to  be  firm  when  they 
met — firm  and  friendly  (ah!  how  easy  to  contemplate; 
how  hard  to  execute!),  and  all  would  settle  itself.  It 
was  not  like  .  .  .  Oh,  how  silly  life  was!  thought  Pat- 
ricia. Her  eyelids  fluttered.  How  alone  she  felt! 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  that  with  all  these  friends 
she  had  no  friend.  What  was  the  cause  ?  Was  it  in  her- 
self? Impossible!  She  said  that  last  word  aloud. 

"Pardon?"  asked  Jacky,  only  half  hearing  Patricia's 
exclamation. 

Patricia  laughed  at  his  surprised  face. 

"Only  talking  to  myself,"  she  assured  him.  "What's 
the  time?" 

"Have  a  Kummel,"  urged  Jacky.  "Cures  anything." 
His  own  face  was  irradiated  with  a  cheerful  and  mean- 


156  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

ingless  smile.  Patricia's  heart  sank.  He  was  one  of 
her  friends.  She  was  torn  between  shame  for  him, 
shame  of  herself  for  thinking  shame  of  him,  and  a  sense 
of  superiority  to  her  contemporaries. 


They  reached  Monty's  by  half-past  nine;  and  Patricia 
was  struck  by  the  difference  between  her  sensations  now 
and  upon  her  first  visit.  Then,  it  had  been  fairyland. 
But  she  saw  the  studio  with  changed  eyes.  It  was  not 
so  large  or  so  beautiful;  the  people  were  not  so  handsome 
or  remarkable.  She  looked  round  upon  them  with  in- 
terest, but  it  was  not  as  an  astonishing  body.  It  was 
with  curiosity  as  to  the  composition  of  the  gathering. 
Fully  half  of  them  were  now  known  to  her  as  acquaint- 
ances. The  noise  they  made  was  familiar;  she  had  no 
longer  the  feeling  of  fresh  enthusiasm.  She  was  rest- 
less and  dissatisfied. 

Only  Monty  still  attracted  her.  She  thought  him 
easily  more  distinguished  than  any  of  his  guests.  Where 
they  all  appeared  to  say  the  same  thing  over  and  over 
again,  he,  by  his  silence,  his  inscrutable  air  of  seeing 
everything  and  knowing  everything,  soothed  and  charmed 
her.  When  Monty  danced  with  her  she  was  happy.  He 
was  unlike  the  rest.  Patricia  could  dance  a  whole  eve- 
ning with  Jacky,  and  be  unaware  that  there  was  any 
current  between  them  of  more  than  common  enjoyment 
of  moderate  proficiency  in  dancing.  But  she  could  not 
dance  once  with  Monty  without  feeling  his  magnetism. 
There  was  something  amazing  in  his  dexterity,  in  his 
immovable  calm.  To  be  with  him  was  to  be  as  one 
hypnotised.  Monty's  low,  soft  tones,  with  that  singular 
rise  at  the  end  of  each  sentence;  his  certainty  of  re- 
source; his  extreme  delicacy  of  movement  and  his  fas- 


MISCHIEF  157 

tidious  politeness — these  were  the  instruments  of  his 
hypnotic  power.  But  the  feeling  she  had  that  he  was  so 
wise  in  the  affairs  of  life,  so  bored  by  them,  so  expert 
in  handling  them,  went  with  a  corresponding  feeling  that 
he  was  greatly  attracted  to  herself.  Monty's  almost 
exaggerated  respect,  and  the  ince'ssant  flattery  of  his  con- 
ciliatory manner,  all  moved  Patricia  to  happiness.  And 
her  happiness  was  the  whole  time  salted  by  the  feeling 
that  she  did  not  trust  him,  that  she  must  never  be  off 
her  guard  with  him.  It  made  Monty  the  more  flatter- 
ing, the  more  attractive.  He  moved  her.  He  made  her 
forget  Harry. 

There  was  something  in  Monty's  manner  which  caused 
Patricia  to  feel  that  he  knew  all  about  Harry  and  herself 
— all  about  everything  Harry  had  ever  done;  and  that 
she  would  never  know  how  much  he  knew  of  herself. 
She  felt  that  nothing  would  ever  surprise  him,  or  move 
him;  and  yet  at  the  same  time  she  knew  that  he  was  a 
refined  voluptuary,  and  that  the  soothing  calm  of  Monty 
affected  her  own  senses  as  even  Harry's  beauty  and 
vitality  and  eager  affection  for  herself  had  not  done. 
She  danced  three  or  four  times  with  Monty;  and  each 
time  she  danced  with  him  it  was  as  though  she  received 
from  his  touch  a  subtle  current  that  made  her,  if  not 
wiser,  at  least  more  experienced  in  the  art  of  living  dan- 
gerously and  with  relish. 

To  Jacky,  afterwards,  she  said : 

"Monty's  an  epicure.     An  epicure  in  sensation." 

"Er  .  .  .  yes,"  said  Jacky,  agreeably.  Patricia 
thought  her  cliche  enlightening.  Jacky's  vacant  face 
was  not.  She  had  the  feeling  that  she  towered  above 
Jacky. 

"Nobody  could  say  that  of  you,"  she  remarked.  But 
her  tone  was  less  offensive  than  her  words.  "You're 
just  a  nice  little  boy.  You  don't  know  anything." 


158  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Jacky  shot  her  a  look  of  infantile  cunning. 

"Ha,  ha !"  he  laughed,  with  a  small  feeble  simulation  of 
heartiness.  It  roused  Patricia's  affection  for  him.  She 
felt  he  really  was  a  nice  little  boy,  clean  and  unpreten- 
tious, not  at  all  baffling  or  sophisticated  or  exciting. 
They  danced  together  again ;  and  Patricia  felt  how  pleas- 
ant and  uneventful  it  was  to  dance  with  Jacky. 


VI 

Patricia  did  not  dance  again  that  evening  with  Monty ; 
but  he  spoke  to  her  before  she  left.  He  had  been  bid- 
ding good-bye  to  some  guests  as  Patricia  was  leaving; 
and  Jacky  was  farther  away,  struggling  with  his  over- 
coat. Monty,  in  the  tapestried  hall,  subdued  to  dimness 
by  the  method  by  which  it  was  lighted,  looked  like  a 
Pasha.  He  was  swarthy  and  impassive  and  alluring. 
Patricia  had  that  quick  feeling — of  loose  robes  and  a 
turban;  and  sherbet  and  willing  slaves  who  came  obedi- 
ently in  response  to  a  clapping  of  hands.  She  imagined 
heavy  incense,  and  the  plashing  of  fountains  and  all  the 
delights  of  those  stories  she  had  read  of  the  East,  and 
Monty  was  the  Pasha  of  these  stories.  .  .  .  He  came 
to  Patricia  as  she  emerged  cloaked  and  hooded  and  ready 
for  the  road. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  going/'  he  said  in  his  low  voice. 
"We  must  dance  again  soon." 

There  was  flattery  in  his  manner;  he  made  Patricia 
feel  that  he  thought  her  beautiful  and  marvellous  and 
charming  and  full  of  grace  and  tenderness.  She  stood 
beside  him,  as  tall  as  Monty,  but  very  slender  and  youth- 
ful, a  complete  contrast  in  her  fairness. 

"Yes,  we  must  dance  again  soon,"  agreed  Patricia. 

"But  how  soon?"  asked  Monty.  "Next  week?  To- 
morrow ? — Monday  ?" 


MISCHIEF  159 

He  was  not  at  all  urgent :  his  tone  was  gentle,  almost 
caressing. 

"Tuesday,"  suggested  Patricia. 

He  bowed  his  head.  Jacky  had  approached ;  and  they 
both  ignored  him.  He  was  the  unnecessary  third  to 
their  conversation.  And  Patricia  had  the  feeling  of  dan- 
ger. She  was  charmed  and  flattered.  She  suddenly 
felt  that  Monty  was  not  the  Pasha  of  her  moment's  in- 
vention, but  that  he  was  as  sleek  and  perhaps  as  treach- 
erous as  a  collie;  and  a  recklessness  seized  her  at  the 
knowledge  that  behind  his  charm  there  might  lie  some- 
thing that  threatened  all  peace.  If  Harry  had  not  been 
dismissed  the  charm  might  have  been  neutralised.  Harry 
was  gone.  She  had  nothing  but  her  own  pleasure  to 
think  of,  nothing  but  sensation  and  the  confusion  of  the 
future. 

Their  farewells  were  said.  With  Jacky,  Patricia  was 
upon  the  way  from  the  house.  She  still  carried  with  her 
the  sensation  of  having  been  enveloped  by  something  as 
light  as  a  mist.  She  was  pleased  and  excited. 


PART  TWO 


CHAPTER  TEN:  EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE 


THE  Windmill  Club  lies  in  one  of  the  streets  on  the 
north  side  of  Piccadilly.  It  is  a  tedious  grey 
building,  quite  unimpressive  in  its  exterior,  and  to  those 
who  pass  along  the  street  it  appears  to  be  no  more  than 
a  couple  of  large  houses  to  which  entry  is  obtained  by  a 
single  central  doorway.  Once  the  door  has  been  passed, 
however,  the  club  has  every  air  of  sober  comfort.  To 
come  into  its  basking  warmth  from  a  cold  London  breeze, 
to  pass  up  the  steps  beyond  the  glass-enclosed  office  of 
the  guardian  porter,  and  to  walk  into  an  enormous  din- 
ing room  marred  only  by  outrageous  portraits  of  the 
undying  great,  is  to  encounter  a  different  world  from  the 
world  of  every  day.  It  is  not  a  political  club,  but  will 
be  found  mentioned  in  Whitaker's  Almanac  with  the 
description  "Social  and  the  Arts."  The  members  are 
of  all  ages,  and  they  include  lawyers,  writers,  artists,  and 
business  men.  They  do  not  play  high,  and  they  do  not 
drink  heavily;  yet  the  club's  cellar  is  famous,  and  there 
are  both  card  and  billiard  rooms  of  some  dimensions. 
It  was  to  this  club  that  Edgar  Mayne  belonged,  although 
he  seldom  visited  it.  He  had  found  the  Windmill  after 
depressing  experience  of  most  of  the  other  West  End 
clubs,  and  he  had  now  been  a  member  of  it  since  just 
before  the  beginning  of  the  War.  Its  comfort,  to  Ed- 
gar, lay  in  its  silence,  its  freedom  from  aggressively- 
opinionated  politicians  of  the  envious  rank,  and  its  well- 
controlled  hospitality.  The  Windmill  possessed  an  effi- 
cient committee.  More  need  not  be  said  in  order  to  dis- 

163 


164  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

tinguish  it  precisely  from  its  fellows;  although  as  comfort 
is  a  common  feature  of  clubs  the  distinction  lay  rather 
in  the  fact  that  the  Windmill  was  solvent  and  self-sup- 
porting. 

One  night  about  a  week  later  than  the  events  last  de- 
scribed Edgar,  who  had  been  on  the  Continent  during  the 
whole  of  the  preceding  six  weeks,  was  dining  at  his  club 
in  company  with  a  man  called  Gaythorpe.  His  com- 
panion was  one  of  those  hard-working  city  men  who 
look  as  though  they  live  wholly  out-of-doors.  Gay- 
thorpe, in  fact,  was  a  keen  golfer;  but  he  was  not  among 
those  golfers  who  weary  with  anecdote  or  the  descrip- 
tion of  links.  He  was  a  tall  thin  fellow  of  sixty,  with 
a  face  that  was  ruddy  yet  lean,  with  eyes  almost  black 
and  melting  enough  to  have  been  those  of  a  Jew,  and  a 
small  mouth  which  never  gave  any  indication  of  his 
thoughts.  Naturally  grave,  Gaythorpe  had  a  pervasive 
sense  of  humour  which  was  a  substitute  for  imagination, 
as  it  sometimes  is  in  those  of  low  vitality  and  broad  ex- 
perience. He  was  white-haired  and  spectacled,  long- 
sighted and  unemotional;  and  he  had  been  knighted  be- 
fore the  War  on  account  of  expert  financial  services  to  a 
dead  government.  His  directorial  connection  with  a 
large  bank  had  been  founded  upon  his  skill  in  finance, 
and  he  was  one  of  those  older  business  men  who  had  the 
greatest  belief  in  Edgar's  sagacity,  both  private  and  com- 
mercial. Sagacity,  Gaythorpe  was  in  the  habit  of  say- 
ing, was  one  of  the  rarest  qualities  to  be  possessed  by  a 
man.  He  rated  it  above  brilliance  and  above  patience. 
Edgar's  sagacity  was  with  Gaythorpe  unquestionable. 
It  was  the  corner-stone  of  Gaythorpe's  pleasure  in  their 
association. 

The  two  men  were  at  a  small  table  with  a  shaded  light 
which  stood  right  in  a  corner  of  the  big  dark  room. 
Both  were  in  evening  dress,  and  their  faces  were  ob- 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  165 

scured  by  the  dim  light,  except  that  the  gold  rims  of 
Gaythorpe's  spectacles  occasionally  gleamed.  They 
were  alone,  for  no  other  diners  sat  near,  and  they  had 
eaten  a  small  but  highly  agreeable  meal.  A  bottle  of 
still  Moselle  stood  between  them,  nearly  empty;  and  the 
extraordinary  faint  fragrance  of  its  contents  hung  in 
the  air.  Edgar,  whose  information  at  the  moment  was 
coloured  by  the  dominant  wishes  and  prejudices  of  those 
Frenchmen  and  Germans  with  whom  he  had  talked  while 
abroad,  was  moderately  expressing  his  view  of  the  atti- 
tude of  foreign  traders  in  general.  He  was  not  cheer- 
ful, because  he  had  found  in  all  the  centres  which  he  had 
visited  a  uniformity  of  depression  which  he  could  not 
gainsay.  But  neither  was  he  hopeless.  He  sat  very 
quietly,  still  the  undistinguished  man  of  Patricia's  first 
glimpse,  but  obviously  more  in  keeping  with  his  sur- 
roundings here  than  he  had  been  at  either  of  Monty's 
parties.  When  one  looked  at  him  a  second  time  one 
perceived  that  the  outward  sign  of  Edgar's  quality  lay 
in  one  peculiarity  of  carriage.  He  did  not,  as  Monty 
always  did,  convey  a  sense  of  threat,  of  sleeping  cruelty; 
there  was  not  in  Edgar,  as  there  was  in  Harry,  a  buoyant 
masterfulness.  Very  quiet,  very  brown  in  hair  and  eyes 
and  skin,  he  commanded  from  those  who  waited  here, 
as  from  those  who  dealt  otherwise  with  him,  a  willing 
respect  in  which  there  was  no  fear  of  menace.  The 
quality  which  marked  him  was  a  sureness  that  belongs 
exclusively  to  dignity,  which  conies  from  a  tranquil 
heart.  He  could  be  ignored  at  a'  distance,  but  never 
ignored  in  the  personal  relation,  because  it  is  there  that 
character  tells  most  surely.  Gaythorpe  had  spoken  little 
during  the  meal.  He  had  listened  soberly  throughout, 
never  at  any  point  relaxing  his  own  judgment  of  the 
facts  and  of  the  speaker. 


166  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

ii 

"All  you  say  confirms  my  own  view,"  Gaythorpe  was 
commenting  thoughtfully.  "It  confirms  the  reports 
we've  been  getting.  It's  no  good  being  bold,  you 
think?" 

Edgar  smiled,  shaking  his  head. 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean  by  'bold/  "  he  said.  Gay- 
thorpe, watching  him,  caught  the  lightness  behind  his 
friend's  gravity,  but  he  did  not  smile.  He  waited.  He 
was  not  the  only  one  of  those  older  men  who  had  this 
strange  warming  of  the  heart  towards  Edgar.  Although 
trustworthiness  may  generally  command  respect,  it  is 
only  truly  valued  in  terms  of  affection  by  those  to  whom 
it  is  not  a  reproach. 

"Exactly  'bold/  "  he  remarked  at  last.     "Just  'bold.' " 

"It's  always  worth  while  to  be  generous,"  answered 
Edgar. 

"Personally,  perhaps."  Gaythorpe  hesitated.  "But 
in  business — my  dear  boy !" 

"Well,  you've  had  conferences  and  committees  sitting 
for  years,  and  discussing  things  all  over  the  world.  They 
cut  a  figure  in  the  press.  Does  any  one  believe  in  them 
as  productive  of  solutions?  They're  like  letters,  or  any 
other  form  of  imitation  dignity.  It's  quite  easy  to  hit 
on  a  formula;  but  the  formula  isn't  a  reality.  Once  get 
a  group  of  men  together  with  conflicting  interests " 

"A  common  interest,"  supplemented  Gaythorpe.  "It's 
come  to  that  when  the  world's  in  danger  of  bankruptcy." 

"Conflicting  self-interest.  Any  number  of  people  can  \ 
agree  on  a  principle;  but  bring  them  into  relation  with  / 
others  dominated  by  a  rival  self-interest,  and  you're  J 
helpless." 

"Pool  your  self-interest.  Face  it,"  Gaythorpe  sug- 
gested. "Use  it  as  the  basis  of  agreement." 


167 

Edgar  smiled  slightly,  his  hands  clasped  upon  the 
table. 

"You'll  never  do  that  in  international  finance,"  he  said. 
"At  any  rate,  as  long  as  nationalism's  a  gospel." 

"Oh,  I  agree.  But  that's  precisely  what  we've  got  to 
kill."  Gaythorpe  was  so  eager  that  he  raised  a  finger. 
Edgar  leaned  forward,  his  face  no  longer  at  all  grave. 
He  looked  at  the  old  man  with  compassion. 

"Travel,  my  friend.  You'll  become  a  defeatist,"  he 
said.  "Nationalism's  such  an  easy  thing  to  teach.  Be- 
sides, selfishness  is  the  gospel  of  the  day.  You  really 
must  take  human  beings  into  account.  How  are  you 
going  to  move  them?  Not  by  altruism.  There  are 
good  men,  who  think  in  good-will ;  but  they  can't  imag- 
ine other  men  in  bulk.  They  talk  about  Germans,  or 
wages,  or  exports;  but  they  don't  feel  reality  when  they 
do  that.  I  mean,  not  the  reality  of  wine  upset  or  a  train 
to  catch  or  a  toothache.  It's  all  like  casting  a  column  of 
figures.  They  don't  feel  themselves  personally  affected. 
Any  more  than  they  do  when  they  talk  of  stabilising  the 
world.  No.  The  only  thing  is  to  work  for  some  de- 
fined clash,  to  formulate  an  altruistic  policy  and  give 'it 
a  selfish  aim.  Then  embark  on  a  campaign  of  propa- 
ganda, showing  that  it  pays  to  be  good  and  do  right — 
that  it's  going  to  reduce  income  tax  or  the  cost  of  petrol. 
Enlarge  your  group.  Make  it  first  English — Anglo- 
Saxon — European — then  World-wide.  But  you've  got 
to  make  it  a  party  policy,  an  issue.  Have  a  scrap— a 
scrap  of  ideas  and  convictions.  Divide  England  into 
two  fierce  political  camps,  and  restore  political  life  in 
England.  Then  carry  your  policy  into  action.  You 
could  sweep  the  world  in  a  generation." 

Gaythorpe  good-humouredly  shook  his  head. 

"It's  an  altruistic  resolution  in  itself,"  he  objected. 
"You'd  be  bankrupt  long  before  you  succeeded.  You'd 


168  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

have  burnt  your  house  to  roast  your  pig.  But  I'm  glad 
to  find  you  such  an  idealist.  If  you  carry  such  principles 
into  your  private  life  it  must  be  exciting.  All  the  same, 
rather  Quixotic." 

Edgar  laughed  slightly. 

"Oh,"  he  said.  "As  to  private  life,  I'm  a  sentiment- 
alist like  yourself." 

"I  wonder."     Gaythorpe  pondered. 

"On  the  surface.  It's  self  interest  at  bottom,  I  ex- 
pect. If  I  try  to  do  good  it's  to  gratify  myself.  I  want 
other  people  to  do  what  I  think  is  good  for  them." 

Gaythorpe  was  pleased  at  the  turn  which  Edgar's 
remarks  had  taken,  because  Edgar  too  seldom  spoke  about 
himself,  and  this  was  a  subject  which  interested  Gay- 
thorpe, who  was  really  human,  more  than  most  others. 
Further,  this  was  a  side  of  Edgar  which  he  did  not  know, 
and  it  had  its  attractiveness  upon  that  score  also. 

"If  you  try  to  help  them,"  Gaythorpe  suggested,  "it 
must  be  from  disinterested  goodwill." 

"Not  always,"  replied  Edgar,  very  promptly.  "It's 
a  complex  question.  But  why  do  I — why  does  anybody 
else  do  the  same  ? — help  willingly  those  I  like — those  who 
are  young  and  attractive,  or  those  who  move  my 
affection?  Why  don't  I  help  those  I  dislike?  Why 
do  I  feel,  at  any  rate,  extremely  unwilling  to  help  those 
I  dislike?" 

"Because  it  would  be  morbid  self-mortification  to  help 
anybody  you  dislike." 

"No,  no.  I'm  thinking  of  a  state  of  mind.  If  I  call") 
help  somebody  I  like,  it's  a  perfectly  instinctive  thing.  / 
But  just  remember  how  many  objections  and  difficulties  j 
rush  to  your  mind  when  you're  asked  to  help  somebody/ 
who  is  disagreeable  to  you." 

Gaythorpe  answered  shrewdly  enough: 

"You're  thinking  of  somebody  in  particular?" 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  169 

Edgar  started. 

"In  both  instances,"  he  agreed.     "No,  in  one  only." 

Gaythorpe  gave  a  snort  of  pretended  annoyance.  His 
keen  old  face  was  benevolent. 

"That's  the  worst  of  these  damned  generalisations," 
he  cried.  "One  sees  them  exploded  each  instant.  You 
see  fifty  people  abroad,  and  you  put  their  views  into  a 
general  statement  of  the  actual  position  of  millions. 
You  come  back.  You  find,  perhaps,  a  letter — two 
letters " 

"One  letter,"  corrected  Edgar. 

"Exactly.  And  they  say  women  have  the  monopoly 
of  that  form  of  inflation !" 

"I'm  not  going  into  details,"  calmly  warned  Edgar. 
"My  generalisations  were  quite — quite  general.  The 
fact  that  I  had  a  letter  is  an  accident.  It  doesn't  affect 
the  generalisation." 

Gaythorpe  was  a  cunning  man.  He  was  sixty,  and 
he  knew  something  of  the  world.  He  said,  in  a  tone 
which  was  altogether  respectful : 

"As  you  know,  I'm  not  .  .  .  not  exactly  given  to  sen- 
timental questioning;  but  was  your  letter  from  a 
woman  ?" 

"From  a  man,"  explained  Edgar,  with  a  touch  of 
malice.  "About  his  own  financial  affairs.  It  had  no 
relation  whatever  to  a  woman." 

"Hm,"  grunted  Gaythorpe.  "I  think  you  said  he  was 
the  unattractive  person?" 

"The  attractive  person  was  hypothetical,"  said  Edgar. 

"Oh,  yes,"  agreed  Gaythorpe.  "Quite  so.  Quite  so. 
Well,  after  all,  you've  been  away  over  a  month;  and 
much  may  happen  in  that  time.  I  didn't,  of  course,  sup- 
pose that  vou  had  any  specially  young  and  attractive 
beneficiary  in  mind.  It  would  not  have  occurred  to  me." 
He  was  silent  for  an  instant  after  this  somewhat  dry 


170  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

protest.  "Nevertheless,  I  ...  I  must  own  to  consid- 
erable interest  in  your  correspondent,  since  he  ...  ah 
.  .  .  affects  you " 

"No."  Edgar  smilingly  shook  his  head.  "You're  a 
very  inquisitive  old  man;  and  you  have  a  great  gift  for 
wheedling  information.  But  you  won't  get  any  more. 
Come  and  smoke  now." 

He  rose  from  the  table. 

"I  was  so  interested,"  grumbled  Gaythorpe ;  and  stood 
up  to  his  lean  height  of  six  feet.  He  followed  Edgar 
across  the  room,  and  there  waited.  His  thin  face  was 
unreadable;  but  he  was  consumed  with  curiosity. 


111 

When  the  two  men  were  in  the  smoking  room,  and 
deep  down  in  comfortable  armchairs,  with  large  and 
delicious  cigars,  they  spoke  no  more  of  business  or  the 
world  at  large.  Gaythorpe  had  been  married  for  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century,  and  he  had  three  boys  in  whose  prog- 
ress he  took  deep  interest.  It  was  of  the  boys  that  he 
spoke — Cyril,  who  had  left  Oxford  and  was  devoting 
himself  to  archaeology;  Roland,  who  was  still  at  the 
University;  and  Alistair,  who  was  at  Marlborough.  Of 
Mrs.  Gaythorpe  he  for  some  time  said  nothing.  But  at 
last  he  mentioned  her. 

"D'you  know  we've  been  married  twenty-five  years?" 
he  demanded.  "I  was  thirty-five,  and  now  I'm  sixty. 
You're  thirty-seven,  and  unmarried.  You  ought  to 
marry  soon — before  you're  forty,  because  otherwise  you 
won't  enjoy  your  children  as  I've  done.  It's  a  point  to 
bear  in  mind." 

Edgar  slightly  frowned. 

"I  shan't  marry  now,"  he  said.  Gaythorpe  laughed,  a 
sudden  chuckling  old  man's  full  laugh. 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  171 

"By  Jove,  that's  a  dangerous  thing  to  say!"  he  pro- 
tested. "It's  the  most  dangerous  and  suspicious  remark 
in  the  world.  I  don't  think  you'll  escape  marriage. 
Some  young  fly-away  will  make  up  her  mind  to  settle 
down;  and  you'll  be  pleasantly  surprised  to  find  yourself 
happily  married." 

"A  fly-away?"  Edgar  raised  his  brows.  "That 
sounds  alarming.  I  suppose  on  the  principle  of  the  re- 
formed rake.  However,  I've  got  an  open  mind.  I  ad- 
mit that  I  want  children;  but  as  far  as  I  can  see  the 
people  I  know  don't  have  them." 

"What  a  sterile  crew  you  must  know." 

"No.     Just  platonic." 

Gaythorpe  smiled  at  the  sarcasm. 

"What  is  the  general  length  of  the  childless  mar- 
riage?" he  asked.  "The  average." 

"I  haven't  noticed.  I  don't  know.  A  couple  of  years? 
Five  years?  At  any  rate,  I  see  no  point  in  the  cere- 
mony. But  the  thing  arises  from  excessive  individual- 
ism among  women;  and  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it. 
The  only  justification  of  the  man  who  insists  on  children 
is  his  wife's  love;  and  if  the  wives  are  fuller  of  self-love 
I  can't  see  why  they  should  be  forced  to  undergo  the 
pains  of  childbirth." 

"My  dear  Edgar,"  said  Gaythorpe.  "Don't  be  senti- 
mental. The  people  who  most  acutely  feel  the  pains  of > 
childbirth  are  sentimental  men.  That  a  woman  should 
suffer  great  physical  pain  for  twenty-four  hours,  and 
a  good  deal  of  nervous  distress  for  some  time  before  her 
delivery,  perhaps  two  or  three  times  in  the  course  of 
her  life,  is  no  reason  why  (if  she's  reasonably  robust) 
she  shouldn't  have  children.  If  there's  an  exaggerated 
fear  of  physical  pain,  or  a  great  deal  of  egotism,  in  the 
woman  you  want  to  marry,  call  the  whole  thing  off  at 
once." 


172  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Edgar  was  faintly  irritated. 

"You  can't  dictate  nowadays/'  he  said.  "That's  past. 
Women  have  got  to  be  treated — the  women  that  one 
could  marry,  I  mean — as  equals.  They've  got  to  have 
an  opportunity  of  living  to  the  full  extent  of  their 
powers." 

"Well,"  said  Gaythorpe,  very  deliberately.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  say  something  you'll  dislike.  I'm  going  to  say 
that  no  woman  who  has  any  inclination  to  love  you  will 
thank  you  for  treating  her  as  an  equal.  She'll  think  it 
a  weakness  in  you.  She  won't  understand  it.  Women 
are  so  constituted  that  they  associate  consideration  with 
indifference." 

"You  were  talking  a  little  while  ago  about  generali- 
sations," murmured  Edgar. 

"Perhaps  I  was.     But  what  I  say  is  true." 

"You  leave  out  of  account,"  said  Edgar,  "in  your  old- 
fashioned    conceptions, — the    fact    than    an    individual^ 
woman  is  always — in  spite  of   her  sex — exactly   what  I 
an  individual  man  is.     She's  always  first  of  all  a  human} 
being." 

"Sometimes,"   responded   Gaythorpe,   with  an  exces- 
sively benevolent  air;   "sometimes,   do   you  know,   I'm"^ 
very  strongly  disposed  to  question  whether  a  woman  can/ 
properly  be  regarded  as  a  human  being  at  all."       ^*S 

iv 

"And  now,"  continued  Gaythorpe,  towards  the  end 
of  their  conversation,  "to  revert  to  your  unattractive 
correspondent." 

Edgar  gave  a  short  laugh.  He  turned  upon  his  friend 
in  rebuke. 

"He's  never  been  far  away  from  your  thoughts.     I've 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  173 

felt  him  there  the  whole  evening.  You  have  two  or 
three  facts — that  he's  antipathetic  to  me,  that  he's  in  a 
financial  difficulty,  and  that  he's  written  me  a  letter. 
That  ought  to  be  enough  for  you." 

"Financial  difficulty.  H'm  .  .  .  yes.  .  .  ."  Gaythorpe 
reflected.  "He  wants  a  loan,  presumably.  A  substantial 
loan?" 

"No,  he  doesn't  want  a  loan." 

"Advice."  Gaythorpe  was  inquisitively  silent.  "I'm 
interested  in  him,  you  know."  . 

"You're  worse.  You're  inquisitive."  Both  smiled 
with  a  kind  of  determination.  Gaythorpe  grunted,  con- 
ning afresh  the  points  of  his  information. 

"As  you  know,"  he  presently  resumed,  "my  interest 
is  largely  in  you.  It's  by  way  of  being  paternal.  Be- 
fore this  evening  I  should  have  said  that  you  were  a  bit 
on  the  hard  side.  But  there's  nothing  a  sentimental 
idealist  might  not  do;  and  I  see  now  that  you're  a  senti- 
mental idealist.  I'm  filled  with  fear.  I  see  you  Quix- 
otically ruining  your  family  for  the  sake  of  self-mortifi- 
cation. You  want  to  help  this  man  because  you  dislike 
him.  I  tell  you  what's  the  matter  with  you,  Edgar. 
Your  particular  kind  of  egotism  leads  you  to  make  a 
fetish  of  magnanimity." 

"Oh!"  laughed  Edgar. 

"It  isn't  cowardice.  It's  indifference.  The  only 
thing  that  will  save  you  is  to  fall  deeply  in  love  with 
Miss  Flyaway.  She  will  tempt  you  to  imprudence,  per- 
haps ;  but  she  will  vitalise  you,  and  harden  you." 

"If  you  remember,  she  was  to  marry  me  only  when 
she  was  reformed,"  parried  Edgar.  "You  seem  to  have 
forgotten  that." 

"On  the  contrary,  you  misjudge  me.  Any  man,  mar- 
rying the  most  reformed  character,  will  find  that  he  has 


174  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

domesticated  a  tigress,"  replied  Gaythorpe.     "Marriage 
is  an  illuminating  experiment.     And  now  to  ^ 

your  unsympathetic  correspondent.  .  .  ." 


They  parted  well  before  midnight,  Gaythorpe  to  travel 
by  taxicab  to  Waterloo  and  thence  to  his  home  at  Hind- 
head,  and  Edgar  to  walk  home  through  the  deserted 
streets.  Gaythorpe  went  his  way  still  ignorant  of  the 
identity  of  Edgar's  correspondent;  but  by  his  adroit 
questioning  he  had  increased  Edgar's  preoccupation  with 
the  subject  of  that  letter.  It  had  been  a  perfectly  simple 
letter,  containing  an  account  of  various  Stock-buying  ex- 
periments which  had  come  to  disaster,  a  list  of  securities 
held,  a  statement  of  immediate  need,  and  a  request  for 
advice.  The  writer  of  the  letter  had  need  of  several 
thousand  pounds,  and  if  he  were  to  sell  the  stock  he  held 
it  would  involve  him  in  still  further  loss.  Therefore, 
although  Edgar  had  been  technically  truthful  in  saying 
that  there  had  been  no  request  for  a  loan,  he  had  no 
doubt  at  all  that  the  fitting  reply  to  the  letter  would  be 
an  offer  of  assistance. 

But  why  a  bank  had  not  been  asked  to  advance  money 
on  the  securities,  which  would  have  been  the  normal 
course  to  adopt,  Edgar  did  not  understand.  Had  the 
writer  been  a  close  personal  friend,  he  could  have  seen 
the  whole  thing  clearly,  and  his  offer  would  have  been 
immediate.  But  the  letter  was  from  Monty  Rosenberg. 
Edgar  was  deeply  perplexed.  What  was  Monty's  object 
in  applying  to  him?  That  there  must  be  some  definite 
object  he  did  not  question.  He  could  not  suppose  that 
Monty  ever  did  anything  without  purpose;  and  in  addi- 
tion, he  felt  sure  that  Monty  was  a  man  to  conceal  from 
his  acquaintances  any  hint  that  he  was  embarrassed. 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  175 

Something,  Edgar  felt  sure,  was  afoot.  He  walked 
home  in  a  brown  study. 

Only  once  did  he  smile;  and  that  was  when  he  recol- 
lected Gaythorpe's  curiosity.  Gaythorpe,  he  remem- 
bered, had  been  curious  not  only  about  Monty,  but  also 
about  the  hypothetical  attractive  person  whom  it  would 
have  been  a  pleasure  to  help.  Strange  that  he  should 
have  made  so  much  of  this  point.  Working,  Edgar  sup- 
posed, from  the  words  "young  and  attractive,"  Gay- 
thorpe had  taken  it  for  granted  that  this  person  was  a 
woman — no  doubt  the  fly-away  girl  who  was  to  marry 
Edgar  against  his  will.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  that 
Gaythorpe  must  have  been  hinting  at  some  story,  because 
in  general  he  was  not  one  of  those  arch  sentimentalists 
wyho  wink  and  curvet  about  the  subject  of  marriage. 
Edgar  gave  a  little  laughing  grunt  as  he  walked. 

"Silly  old  man,"  he  thought.  "I  wonder  what  put  all 
that  nonsense  into  his  head." 

Perhaps  Edgar  was  not  quite  as  candid  with  himself 
as  he  should  have  been  and  as  he  generally  was.  He 
strode  at  a  rapid  pace  along  the  ringing  pavements;  and 
the  fresh  wind  that  met  him  came  deliciously  cordial  to 
his  cheeks  and  lungs.  Although  he  was  not  tall — about 
five  feet  eight — Edgar  was  sturdily  built,  and  he  loved 
walking.  And  in  London  the  night  hours  are  the  best 
for  that  exercise.  He  was  refreshed  and  invigorated. 
By  the  time  he  was  half  way  down  the  Brompton  Road 
Edgar  had  dismissed  the  subjects  of  Monty  and  the  un- 
known from  his  mind;  and  thereafter  all  his  thoughts 
were  of  business  affairs  until  he  reached  home.  All  of 
them?  Very  nearly  all.  Some  few,  perhaps,  he  spared 
for  Patricia;  but  he  hardly  was  conscious  when  he 
thought  of  her,  so  familiar  was  he  with  the  subject. 


176  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

vi 

It  was  not  until  he  was  indoors,  and  sitting  rather 
moodily  by  a  waning  fire,  that  Edgar  returned  to  some  of 
Gaythorpe's  remarks.  He  did  this  in  an  instinctive  ef- 
fort to  explain  the  moodiness  of  which  he  felt  suddenly 
conscious.  True,  he  had  felt  moments  of  melancholy 
while  abroad;  but  those  had  been  explicable  by  the  fact 
that  he  was  friendless  in  strange  cities.  Now  the  case 
was  different.  Somewhere  within  his  heart  there  was 
an  almost  bitter  resentment  of  Gaythorpe's  cyni- 
cism on  the  subjects  of  women  and  marriage.  At  the 
moment  he  had  accepted ,  them  as  he  would  normally 
have  done.  They  returned  with  added  venom  to  his 
memory.  The  first  thought — that  perhaps  Gaythorpe 
had  been  unhappy  in  his  marriage — Edgar  dismissed  as 
sentimentality.  The  truer  explanation  was  probably 
that  the  old  man  was  expressing  a  fundamental  cynicism, 
due  to  the  fact  tkat  his  own  happiness  had  left  him  occa- 
sion to  view  the  miseries  of  others.  Edgar,  too,  had 
witnessed  those  miseries.  He  was  still  unable  to  ex- 
plain them  except  in  individual  cases.  He  was  thought- 
ful and  none  too  happy.  There  had  been  menace — the 
deeper  because  he  had  concluded  it  to  be  unconscious — 
in  Gaythorpe's  insistence  on  the  reality  of  a  young 
woman  towards  whom  Edgar  felt  a  helpful  eagerness. 

"What  a  fool  I  was  to  give  him  such  an  opening !"  he 
thought. 

Slowly  it  was  as  though  Edgar  fell  asleep.  He  saw 
two  clear  eyes,  which  he  thought  to  hold  all  the  truth 
and  beauty  in  the  world.  He  heard  spoken  words — 
words  that  were  almost  all  that  Patricia  had  ever  said 
to  him.  The  sense  of  her  presence  was  extraordinarily 
strong  ...  a  presence  that  was  more  than  presence,  for 
Edgar  was  quite  poignantly  imagining  a  real  Patricia, 


EDGAR  HEARS  A  WISEACRE  177 

so  much  more  beautiful  than  she  would  seem  with  others 
present.  His  lips  moved  in  unspoken  words.  His 
hands  were  gently  raised  from  the  arms  of  his  chair, 
and  extended.  If  desire  and  imagination  had  the  power 
to  call  those  we  love  to  our  sides,  then  surely  Edgar 
would  have  awakened  with  Patricia  in  his  arms.  He 
was  experiencing  a  reality  of  communion  which  only 
those  who  love  deeply  can  conceive.  The  emotion  he 
then  felt  transcended  anything  he  had  ever  known. 

And  then  his  eyes  opened,  and  he  saw  the  extended 
arms  with  something  like  shame.  The  lips  so  lately 
parted  were  again  firmly  set,  and  he  coloured  faintly. 
Not  thus  was  a  woman  to  be  won,  he  knew.  And  yet 
the  vision  had  served  to  make  his  heart  clear  to  him. 
He  had  seen  Patricia  as  she  had  been  at  their  first  meet- 
ing, in  all  the  smoke  and  din  and  brilliance  of  Monty's 
party.  Again  he  had  glimpsed  Dalrymple  and  Monty; 
again  he  had  exchanged  with  Harry  Greenlees  that  meas- 
uring glance.  He  rose  from  the  chair,  and  went  across 
to  the  fireplace,  his  face  lighted  by  a  sudden  flicker  of 
flame.  Now  he  knew  why  he  had  been  so  sensitive  to 
Gaythorpe's  allusions  and  his  bitterness.  Now,  too,  he 
realised  what  had  been  hidden  from  him.  Never  would 
he  have  been  divided  by  the  sharp  impulse  to  strike  or  to 
kiss  Patricia  if  she  had  not  been  the  only  person  in  the 
world  capable  of  causing  him  pain.  He  loved  deeply. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN:  CHANGE 


THE  following  evening  Edgar  found  on  reaching 
home  that  some  old  friends  of  his  parents  had  so 
protracted  an  afternoon  call  that  they  had  been  asked 
to  stay  for  dinner.  Both  were  old  ladies  from  a  small 
country  town,  of  substantial  wealth  and  position,  whose 
perspective  had  become  grotesque  as  the  result  of  long 
life  in  a  restricted  circle;  and  as  companions  Edgar  found 
them  insupportable.  The  airs  of  the  schoolmistress,  the 
independence  of  the  housemaids,  and  the  general  supe- 
riority of  the  Misses  Wickford  to  the  whole  of  their 
world  were  incessantly  discussed;  and  all  these  topics 
combined  to  make  Edgar  restlessly  unhappy  throughout 
the  meal.  Claudia  was  absent,  at  the  home  of  friends; 
and  he  had  neither  solace  nor  variety.  Because  of  this 
trouble  Edgar  decided  upon  a  plan  which  was  already 
half -formed  in  his  mind.  It  was  to  run  up  and  see 
Monty  Rosenberg,  and  thus  to  learn  the  truth  about 
Monty's  financial  straits  and  to  discover  the  real  nature 
of  the  help  which  Monty  required  from  him. 

Having  correctly  taken  leave  of  the  Misses  Wickford, 
who  thereupon  discussed  his  bachelor  state  with  those 
who  remained  and  advanced  the  claims  of  a  really  nice 
girl  living  in  their  district,  Edgar  was  quickly  upon  the 
road.  Within  half-an-hour  he  was  at  Monty's  door. 
He  had  not  made  up  his  mind  what  to  say;  but  he  had 
Monty's  letter  in  his  pocket,  and  was  ready  to  be  help- 
ful and  businesslike.  And  as  the  door  was  opened  Ed- 
gar heard  such  a  din  that  he  recoiled.  From  the  studio 

178 


CHANGE  179 

was  a  huge  and  brazen  noise,  as  of  kettles  and  fire-irons 
in  competition  with  piano  and  banjo. 

"Oh,"  he  cried,  electrically  reconsidering  his  plan  for 
the  evening.  "A  party?"  Coming  as  he  had  done  with 
the  object  of  advising  a  man  financially  embarrassed, 
Edgar  felt  as  Mother  Hubbard  must  have  done  when 
she  found  her  dog  dancing.  He  hesitated,  quick  com- 
ments darting  through  his  mind.  This  was  not  the  suit- 
able setting  for  a  financial  talk.  Was  Monty  mad? 
His  recoil  subsided.  After  all,  Nero  fiddled  .  .  . 
"Then  perhaps  I'd  better " 

But  the  door  of  the  studio  had  opened,  shedding  fresh 
light  and  redoubled  din  from  within;  and  Monty  was 
already  aware  of  his  arrival.  The  shutting  of  the  door 
made  the  noise  comparatively  negligible  again.  Monty 
hastened  forward. 

"Hullo,  Mayne.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  Don't  go. 
Come  in  here."  He  indicated  the  big  drawing  room  to 
the  left  of  the  hall.  It  was  empty,  but  a  fire  was  alight 
there,  and  the  room  was  warm.  From  the  amber  walls 
and  rich  golden  brown  of  the  furnishings  the  soft  illumi- 
nation evoked  glowing  beauty.  "It's  just  a  few  people 
dancing.  Are  you  a  dancing  man?" 

Edgar  explained  the  object  of  his  visit.  He  was  all  the 
time  acutely  conscious  of  the  room  and  its  air  of  im- 
penetrable richness,  contrasting  it  without  being  aware 
that  he  did  so  with  the  less  exquisite  plainness  of  his  own 
home,  which  represented  so  much  more  love  and  enter- 
prise and  so  much  less  finished  taste.  It  stiffened  him 
a  little. 

"That  had  better  be  postponed,"  he  said.  "We  can't 
discuss  it  now." 

"I'd  like  to.  Come  and  dance — and  then  we'll  talk 
later  on." 

Monty's  manner  was  cordial — friendly;  and  yet  Ed- 


180  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

gar  felt  that  it  held  perhaps  a  slight  uneasiness.  The 
beautifully-groomed  air  which  always  masked  Monty 
was  unchanged;  but  in  those  dark  eyes  and  behind  the 
assured  manner  lay  something  that  was  almost  an  ap- 
peal. Edgar  shrank;  but  he  accepted  the  invitation,  and 
he  was  led  into  the  studio. 


n 

It  had  been  cleared  so  as  to  provide  ample  floor-space 
for  the  guests.  At  the  piano  sat  one  man  and  by  his  side 
another  who  played  upon  a  banjo.  Both  were  in  eve- 
ning dress.  A  sportive  young  fellow  had  been  adding 
to  the  noise  by  clashing  tongs  and  fire-shovel  together. 
About  twenty  people  were  in  the  studio  altogether,  of 
whom  only  a  few  of  the  men  wore  dinner  jackets;  and 
the  dancing  had  not  Jong  been  in  progress.  It  was  not 
yet  a  rowdy  party,  although  it  might  later  develop  into 
one  when  the  character  of  the  music  and  the  stimulation 
of  the  common  movement  should  have  had  their  effect. 
The  studio  walls  rose  high  above  the  moving  figures; 
and  the  place  was  quite  different  from  what  it  had  been 
when  Edgar  had  seen  it  before.  All  that  aesthetic  blend- 
ing of  colour  which  he  had  noticed  was  now  reduced. 
It  was  a  large  bare  place,  the  chairs  and  divans  with- 
drawn to  the  walls,  and  the  decoration  subdued.  Hang- 
ings and  rugs  were  gone:  the  walls  were  adorned  only 
with  casually  hung  or  pinned  sketches.  The  place  seemed 
lighter  and  more  airy,  but  it  was  wholly  out  of  key  with 
Edgar's  recollection.  Nor  were  the  guests  recognisable 
to  him  in  that  first  glimpse.  Edgar  smiled  as  he  turned 
aside  to  Monty,  and  then  he  heard  the  music  cease. 
There  came  a  babble  from  all  round  him.  It  was  now 
that  Edgar's  heart  gave  a  slight  stir,  for  he  saw  that 
Patricia,  whc  sat  with  her  late  partner  at  the  farther 


CHANGE  181 

end  of  the  studio,  was  looking  in  his  direction.  She 
wore  a, plain  dark  dress  which  emphasised  her  fairness 
and  the  whiteness  of  her  skin;  but  he  could  not  tell  at 
that  distance  of  what  material  the  dress  was  made  nor 
how  Patricia  looked,  so  strong  was  the  light.  Instantly 
Edgar  was  delighted  that  he  had  come.  He  felt  nothing 
more  intense  than  delight — nothing  more  possessive; 
but  he  was  engrossed,  and  could  hardly  attend  t&  what 
Monty  was  saying. 

"I'll  introduce  you  to  one  or  two  of  the  girls.  The 
others  won't  interest  you.  And  we'll  get  away  pres- 
ently and  have  a  talk.  That  suit  you?" 

Again  Edgar  was  aware  of  that  appeal.  It  revived 
his  sense  of  stiffness,  for  he  could  never  have  pleaded 
for  himself  as  this  man  was  doing.  In  distate  for 
Monty's  suppleness,  Edgar  found  also  something  which 
gave  him  sudden  personal  interest  in  the  man.  He  saw 
him  very  truly  in  that  instant,  in  a  quick  glimpse.  Monty 
was  without  pride.  Therefore  he  was  to  be  watched. 
Not  merely  treachery  might  arise,  but  insensitiveness, 
which  upsets  standards  by  unconsciousness  that  they 
exist.  It  was  with  a  faint  shrug  that  Edgar  turned  to 
be  introduced  to  Rhoda  Flower.  Strange  how  instinct- 
ively contemptuous  of  suppleness  an  Englishman  often 
is!  Edgar  did  not  underrate  Monty;  but  he  despised 
him.  Deep  down,  far  below  his  awareness  of  judgment, 
lay  the  snorting  epithet  "Foreigner!"  All  his  experi- 
ence of  life  and  his  tolerance  of  moral  defects  could  not 
annul  that  instinctive  hostility  to  alien  civilisation. 
Even  while  he  was  dancing  with  Rhoda,  he  was  preoc- 
cupied with  other  perceptions.  He  did  not  speak;  he 
hardly  felt  her  there;  but  mechanically  followed  the 
rhythm  of  the  dance. 

Something  awakened  him.  He  could  not  dance  with 
Rhoda  without  recognising  her  as  a  voluptuary;  and  he 


182  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

was  interested  in  her  from  the  knowledge  that  Rhoda's 
personality  was,  in  spite  of  its  mobility,  surprisingly 
fixed  for  so  young  a  girl  as  he  supposed  her  to  be.  He 
looked  sharply  at  his  partner — at  her  black  bobbed  hair 
and  her  beautifully  clear  cheeks  and  eyes.  There  was 
something  vaguely  familiar  about  her  face,  and  about  the 
life  which  gave  it  constant  vivacity  of  expression. 

"I've  seen  you  before,  haven't  I?"  he  said,  frowning 
in  the  effort  to  remember. 

"How  clever  of  you!"  cried  Rhoda.  A  slow  and  de- 
licious smile  drew  her  lips  apart,  and  revealed  teeth  yet 
whiter.  In  the  plump  but  beautifully-moulded  cheeks 
appeared  dimples.  Rhoda  was  languorously  arch.  "I 
wish  I  was  clever!" 

"Have  you  seen  me  before?"  demanded  Edgar.  He 
could  not  resist  the  attraction  to  her,  and  he  was  smil- 
ing responsively ;  but  he  was  still  puzzled,  thinking  her 
face  so  familiar  and  yet  so  unfamiliar. 

"How  gallant  you  are!"  teased  Rhoda.  "Isn't  this 
a  good  tune  ?" 

"Were  you  here  at  a  party  about  six  weeks  ago  ?" 

Rhoda  laughed  outright.  Patricia,  at  that  moment 
passing,  opened  her  eyes  wide.  She  had  not  hitherto 
recognised  Edgar  as  a  wit,  and  she  took  a  peculiar  in- 
terest in  Rhoda  Flower,  so  that  her  observation  in  this 
instance  was  made  the  more  alert. 

His  doubts  resolved,  Edgar  was  at  ease  with  Rhoda. 
He  now  recognised  her  as  the  girl  who  had  been  with 
Harry  Greenlees  at  the  first  party,  and  who  had  left  in 
his  company  at  the  end  of  the  evening.  He  remembered 
her  air  of  attentiveness  to  the  young  man  who  smiled 
so  broadly.  It  was  pleasant  to  recall  this  picture,  be- 
cause it  was  related  to  his  first  sight  of  Patricia.  He 
looked  round  for  Harry,  who,  however,  was  not  present. 
Nor  could  he  see  Blanche  Tallentyre;  but  some  of  the 


CHANGE  183 

other  faces  were  those  of  guests  at  the  earlier  gathering. 
The  majority  were  unknown  to  him,  and  while  their 
spirits  seemed  to  be  good,  Edgar  thought  the  company 
as  a  whole  was  a  little  inclined  to  be  rakish.  He  was 
glad  to  be  dancing  with  Rhoda,  who,  apart  from  Pat- 
ricia, was  the  freshest  among  the  girls.  The  men  struck 
him  as  a  poor  lot.  Now  that  he  was  used  to  the  band 
Edgar  no  longer  found  it  deafening.  He  was  only  a 
moderately-good  dancer,  because  although  he  had  a  good 
ear  and  sufficient  physical  elasticity  he  was  not  espe- 
cially interested  in  the  exercise;  but  he  could  tell  that 
his  partner  was  both  accurate  and  enthusiastic.  She 
moved  beautifully,  with  complete  absorption  in  the  dance. 
Moreover,  he  found  her  impudent  cheerfulness  delight- 
ful. He  would  have  preferred  only  one  other  compan- 
ion; and  it  was  to  this  other  that  his  glance  flew  when- 
ever she  was  near.  The  flying  glimpse  was  all  Edgar 
had  for  a  long  time,  for  Rhoda  was  busily  engaged  dur- 
ing intervals  between  dances  in  trying  to  learn  some- 
thing about  him  by  means  of  adroit  questioning,  while 
Patricia  herself  seemed  to  be  quite  content  with  her 
partners  and  to  be  elated  by  their  obvious  admiration. 
Edgar  was  happy  in  Patricia's  presence.  He  did  not 
feel  any  immediate  need  to  speak  to  her,  and  he  was  in 
some  curious  way  too  shy  to  wrest  her  from  these  other 
men.  But  into  his  glances  there  came  presently  a 
slightly  anxious  gravity,  for  he  noticed  differences  in 
her,  wrought  by  the  month  during  which  he  had  been 
absent  from  London,  and  these  differences  were  unwel- 
come. An  eye  less  keen  would  not  have  discerned 
them:  Edgar  himself  could  not  have  said  wherein  they 
were  shown.  At  last,  when  Rhoda  was  momentarily 
engaged  with  somebody  else,  he  went  across  the  room  to 
Patricia's  side. 


184  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iii 

Even  in  her  greeting  he  found  Patricia  changed,  yet 
he  was  at  the  same  time  puzzled  at  his  sense  of  the 
change.  She  was  as  unaffected  as  ever,  and  almost  as 
fresh.  Ah!  almost — that  was  the  difference  he  felt.  It 
was  a  restlessness  in  her  expression  that  made  Edgar 
frown,  a  strain  in  the  eyes,  a  small  and  perhaps  momen- 
tary diminution  in  the  bloom  of  her  cheek.  To  another 
there  would  have  seemed  no  change  at  all. 

"I  saw  you  as  soon  as  I  arrived,"  Edgar  said;  "but 
you  seemed  to  have  partners  for  each  dance.  I've  been 
abroad  for  a  month." 

"I  wish  I  had  been,"  answered  Patricia. 

Again  the  mark  of  slight  change!  And  a  leaping  im- 
pulse in  Edgar  to  respond  that  she  had  but  to  be  con- 
stant in  such  a  wish  to  make  him  altogether  happy. 

"It  wasn't  really  very  cheerful,"  he  assured  her.  "I 
was  very  lonely." 

"But  you  were  doing  something  the  whole  time." 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing?  Amusing  your- 
self?" 

"Trying  to.  Oh,  yes  ...  I  suppose  so."  Patricia 
was  listless  and  unresponsive.  Her  vivacity  had  died 
down.  He  was  seeing  her  in  a  moment  of  discourage- 
ment. But  even  as  Edgar  received  this  impression,  she 
brightened,  and  went  on:  "That  man  there — "  she  in- 
dicated a  medium-sized  man  of  about  thirty,  who  was 
describing  something  to  a  companion  and  raising  his 
hands  with  a  grace  which  suggested  that  he  was  not 
English — "That  one  .  .  .  dances  better  than  anybody 
I've  erer  met.  If  I  could  dance  as  well  as  he  does  I 
should  be  happy." 

"Is  he  happj?"  asked  Edgar.     "I  thought  you  looked 


CHANGE  185 

as  though  you  were  happy  and  as  though  you  danced 
about  as  well  as  anybody  could." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"What  did  you  see  abroad  ?"  she  demanded. 

"Poverty  and  glitter;  cabs  in  the  streets  and  jewels  at 
the  opera;  and  everybody  wondering  how  on  earth  to 
make  both  ends  meet.  Money  that  didn't  buy  what  it 
ought  to  buy.  Plenty  of  misery  going  on  in  each  cor- 
ner, and  plenty  of  noise  and  fuss.  The  same  old  con- 
tradictions everywhere." 

Patricia  frowned. 

"Worse  than  here  ?" 

"I  couldn't  tell.  I  was  busy,  and  depressed.  The 
men  I  met  were  wretched;  and  I  saw  the  gaiety  only  in 
passing.  Very  much  the  same,  I  expect." 

"Hm."  She  made  no  comment;  but  she  had  become 
grave.  "D'you  think  everybody's  mad?  I  do." 

"Perhaps  they  always  are.     Perhaps  we  are." 

"Sometimes  I  feel  I  shall  go  mad."  There  was  a  dis- 
couraged note  in  Patricia's  voice  which  confirmed  Ed- 
gar's intuition.  She  was  obviously  not  in  a  normal 
mood ;  although  he  had  seen  her  laughing  with  her  part- 
ners earlier  in  the  evening. 

"Let's  dance,"  he  suggested.     "Postpone  the  madness." 

"I  think,"  said  Patricia,  slowly,  and  as  if  she  were 
being  strangled  by  some  unexpressed  emotion,  "that  .  .  . 
you're  only  afraid  because  .  .  .  you  think  I'm  a  child 
to  be  petted  out  of  .  .  ." 

She  allowed  him  to  make  her  dance;  but  she  did  not 
respond  to  him,  and  there  were  tears  in  Patricia's  eyes. 
Edgar  did  not  speak  while  they  danced.  Almost,  he 
did  not  look  at  her.  He  was  too  much  disconcerted, 
too  preoccupied  with  an  effort  to  explain  Patricia's 
mood.  Yet  to  Patricia  he  appeared  immovable. 


186  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iv 

Once  during  their  partnership  Edgar  was  conscious 
of  a  long  deep  glance  from  her.  When  at  last  he  looked 
to  meet  it  the  glance  was  withdrawn,  but  the  gravity  of 
Patricia's  face  was  unchanged.  He,  too,  frowned,  made 
thoughtful  by  her  expression;  and  when  they  were  once 
more  seated  together,  since  he  felt  that  their  degree 
of  intimacy  was  not  great  enough  for  an  invited  con- 
fidence, he  tried  to  divert  her  attention  from  her  own 
thoughts. 

"You  remember  that  before  I  went  away  you  promised 
to  come  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  Claudia?"  he 
said.  "What  would  you  say  to  coming  one  evening 
this  week?  Would  that  be  possible?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  said  Patricia,  coldly.  "I'm  rather 
busy  this  week." 

The  devil  you  are!  thought  Edgar.  He  grew  equally 
cold  for  an  instant,  until  his  patience  conquered  his  irri- 
tation. 

"I'll  ask  my  mother  to  write  and  suggest  an  evening," 
he  went  on,  as  if  unconcernedly.  "You  could  come  to 
dinner,  and  you  could  meet  Claudia.  Also  Pulcinella 
and  Percy." 

Patricia  inclined  her  head;  she  was  not  listening.  A 
moment  later  she  was  claimed  by  the  dancer  for  whom 
she  had  expressed  admiration;  and  Edgar  saw  her  mov- 
ing about  the  room  as  if  she  were  entirely  happy.  He 
was  bewildered.  Was  it  to  himself  that  she  had  become 
hostile?  His  impulse  was  to  withdraw,  to  see  her  no 
more ;  but  dudgeon  is  a  preserve  of  the  very  young  man, 
so  he  dismissed  it.  Nevertheless  he  was  resentful  of 
her  listlessness  in  his  own  company,  her  inattention. 
What  could  account  for  it? 

While  Edgar  sat  thus  absorbed  in  a  single  problem, 


CHANGE  187 

he  found  that  Monty  had  drawn  near.     Monty  made  a 
motion  towards  the  door. 

"Could  you  come  now?"  he  asked.  The  two  men 
left  the  studio  and  went  into  the  room  to  which  Edgar 
had  first  been  introduced  on  arrival. 


As  the  door  was  closed  Edgar  could  not  forbear  the 
comment  which  had  been  in  his  mind  from  the  moment 
of  discovery  that  a  party  was  in  progress. 

"I  thought  from  your  letter  that  you  were  in  some 
urgent  difficulty,"  he  said. 

Monty  was  quite  suave.  He  stood  before  his  com- 
panion with  the  utmost  nonchalance,  a  faint  smile  upon 
his  lips. 

"Do  sit  down,"  he  answered,  in  that  gentle  voice  with 
the  rising  note.  "I  am  in  a  difficulty,  and  it's  most  kind 
of  you  to  ...  give  me  your  advice.  Now,  in  detail 
that  is  quite  impossible  this  evening.  This  .  .  .  this 
affair  prevents  my  being  away  long.  But  perhaps  if  I 
tell  you  a  little  more  the  whole  matter  will  be  ... 
plainer."  When  Edgar  was  settled,  Monty  supported 
himself  by  the  table,  and  continued.  "Well,  now  .  .  . 
as  I  told  you,  there's  about  twenty  thousand  invested  in 
those  different  .  .  .  concerns.  In  every  case  the  prices 
are  seriously  down.  Most  of  them  will  go  up  again." 

"Quite,"  agreed  Edgar. 

"Normally,  then,  I  should  hang  on.  And  of  course 
I  could  borrow  from  the  bank." 

"I  wondered  why  you  hadn't  done  that." 

Monty  lowered  his  voice  still  further,  until  the  thick 
vibration  which  underlay  its  ordinary  softness  was  em- 
phasised. Edgar  had  the  sense  that  Monty  always  spoke 
of  business  in  this  lazy  and  confidential  way,  that  he 


188  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

had  the  large  loose  meanness  of  those  born  opulent,  that 
even  in  dealing  with  himself  Monty  was  conscious  of 
a  sort  of  explanatory  patience. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  the  bank  for  a  reason  which 
...  I  wonder  if  you'll  appreciate  its  strength  .  .  .  be- 
cause .  .  .  well,  the  local  manager  is  ...  an  acquaint- 
ance ...  a  very  social  man  .  .  .  rather  indiscreet;  and 
his  wife  might  possibly  be  more  indiscreet;  and  I'm  a 
little  morbid  about  .  .  ." 

"Do  they — I  understand  perfectly.  Do  you  keep  your 
securities  at  the  bank,  or  do  you  keep  them  yourself  ?" 

"At  the  bank.  That's  the  trouble.  I  can  get  them, 
of  course.  I  could  transfer  them  from  this  branch  and 
deposit  them  elsewhere  without  question  or  incon- 
venience; but  I  have  a  very  definite  personal  reason  for 
making  no  change  at  all  in  my  present  allocations.  And, 
my  dear  Mayne,  the  money  I  need  is  ...  I  need 
hardly  say,  this  is  in  great  confidence.  .  .  .  The  money 
I  need  will  have  to  be  paid  quickly,  and  ...  in  fact, 
the  whole  thing  is  difficult." 

"What's  the  sum?" 

"Two-thousand  five-hundred.  You  understand,  I 
don't  .  .  ." 

"Who  are  your  bankers?  Could  it  be  done  with  the 
Head  Office?  No,  I  suppose  not." 

"Not  .  .  .  Look  here,  Mayne,  I  don't  want  to  be 
mysterious  at  all  .  .  ." 

"No:  that's  quite  all  right.     I'm  only  thinking  .  .  ." 

"It's  the  Great  Central  Bank,  just  up  here.  I  par- 
ticularly don't  want  to  do  anything  whatever  in  relation 
to  the  bank.  But  for  that  I  shouldn't  have  troubled 
you.  I  want  to  raise  the  money  outside.  I  don't  want 
to  alter  my  deposits.  Let  me  make  that  perfectly  clear." 

Edgar  interrupted  him. 


CHANGE  189 

"You'd  like  me  to  suggest  lending  you  the  money  my- 
self ?"  he  asked  directly. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause — as  if  for  the  passage 
of  a  shiver  of  distaste  for  such  brusque  ill-breeding. 
Then  Monty,  as  if  nothing  in  the  world  could  have 
ruffled  him,  nodded  slowly. 

"That  would  be  most  kind,"  he  replied.  "Most 
kind." 

"I  wonder  how  long  it  would  be  for?"  pondered  Ed- 
gar, aloud. 

"Five  hundred  in  a  month's  time.  The  whole  of  the 
rest  within  six  months.  That  I  think  I  could  promise 
definitely.  Could  you  do  it  yourself  without  incon- 
venience? You're  most  generous." 

I  wonder  if  I'm  generous?  thought  Edgar,  recalling 
Gaythorpe's  jeer  at  his  morbidity.  And  secretly  he 
knew  that  it  was  not  generosity  but  a  sort  of  contempt 
which  had  prompted  his  leading  question,  and  that  Monty 
himself,  placed  similarly,  would  have  avoided  the  issue 
and  evaded  the  loan. 

"Well,  I'm  not  a  money-lender;  and  it's  quite  true 
that  the  thing  presents  difficulties.  But  I  could  certainly 
arrange  to  let  you  have  the  money." 

"My  dear  Mayne  .  .  ." 

"Not  at  all.  When  do  you  want  it?  And  how?" 
He  was  impatient. 

Monty  shrugged.  His  orientalism  was  more  marked 
than  ever. 

"This  instant,"  he  admitted.  "Or  ...  as  soon  as 
possible."  Edgar  nodded.  "And  I  should  like  it,"  con- 
tinued Monty,  with  his  singular  smile,  "I  should  like  it 
—if  that  happened  quite  perfectly  to  suit  you — as  an 
open  cheque,  payable  to  bearer  .  .  ." 


190  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

vi 

"Oh!"  cried  Edgar,  as  if  in  surprise. 

"I'm  perfectly  ready  to  sign  any  acknowledgment," 
insisted  Monty.  "But  this  will  be  of  peculiar  service." 
There  was  a  silence  between  them.  The  cheque  was  to 
be  open,  and  the  matter  was  pressing :  therefore  the  pay- 
ment was  to  be  a  secret  payment.  If  Monty's  invest- 
ments were  as  he  stated  them  to  be,  and  his  relations 
with  the  bank  and  its  branch  manager  amicable,  what 
purpose  was  there  in  such  concealment?  Edgar 
frowned  slightly.  He  was  being  used  as  a  friend — as 
a  convenience — by  one  who  was  not  his  friend  and  who 
did  not  trust  him  with  an  explanation.  As  if  he  felt 
what  was  in  Edgar's  mind,  Monty  interrupted.  "I  feel 
I  must  emphasise  the  point  that  my  reason  for  wanting 
this  money  privately  is  personal,  and  not  financial,"  he 
said. 

A  sudden  smile  lighted  Edgar's  face. 

"I  perfectly  understand  that,"  he  answered.  "There's 
no  more  to  be  said." 

Together  the  two  men  went  back  to  the  studio.  In 
two  minutes  they  had  so  mingled  with  the  noise  and 
rising  spirits  of  the  dancers  that  their  absence,  if  it  had 
been  noticed  at  all,  was  forgotten.  Edgar  sought  Rhoda 
Flower,  and  was  amused  to  find  her  interest  in  himself 
shown  without  concealment.  But  even  as  he  talked  to 
her  he  was  from  time  to  time  seeking  in  that  crowd  for 
Patricia,  and  seeking  among  his  impressions  for  some- 
thing which  would  explain  the  change  in  her.  As  far 
as  Edgar  could  tell,  Patricia  did  not  concern  herself  at 
all  with  him.  It  was  strange  how  this  wound  that  she 
had  inflicted  outstayed  every  other  sensation  of  the  eve- 
ning— from  his  pleasure  in  Rhoda  to  his  growing  an- 
tipathy towards  Monty.  He  was  puzzled  and  chagrined. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE:  ENCOUNTER 


PATRICIA  arrived  at  the  Maynes*  house  a  moment 
early.  She  had  walked  from  her  rooms  through 
one  of  the  streets  to  the  north  of  the  King's  Road,  and 
in  spite  of  her  new  boredom,  which  made  her  a  little 
shrink  from  the  prospect  of  an  evening  with  uncongenial 
people,  she  was  aware  of  curiosity  at  sight  of  the  house. 
It  was  one  of  those  tall  featureless  houses  which  lie  in 
respectable  avenues  in  Kensington,  stained  by  a  kind 
of  grim  insipidity  and  separated  from  the  road  by  an 
iron  railing,  a  grass  plot,  and  an  immense  flight  of  stone 
steps.  The  portals  were  massively  columnar,  and  the 
windows  bay.  There  was  nothing  to  make  the  Maynes' 
house  different  from  those  upon  each  side  of  it  except- 
ing the  number  and  the  fact  that  the  iron  gate  did  not 
groan  as  it  was  opened.  From  without,  the  house  was 
what  Patricia  expected. 

Indoors  it  was  distinct.  There  was  no  smell  of  cook- 
ing; the  walls  were  papered  in  a  blue-gray,  the  staircase 
was  fresh  and  clean  with  blue-grey  paint,  and  a  carpet 
of  the  same  colour  in  a  rather  darker  shade  extended  as 
far  as  she  could  see.  Her  mind  instantly  received  the 
impression:  "Liberty!"  The  maid  was  young,  pretty, 
smiling,  and  curious.  And  as  Patricia  went  forward 
into  the  room  into  which  she  was  informally  shown 
Edgar  himself  was  there,  with  a  plump  old  lady  and  a 
pretty  young  woman  and  a  surreptitiously  barking  im- 
mature cocker  spaniel  all  close  behind  him.  Patricia 
received  a  shock.  This  was  a  home,  the  first  home  she 

191 


192  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

had  been  in  for  years.  These  were  kind  people.  Her 
heart  was  opened  to  them.  She  was  a  child  at  once, 
eager  that  they  should  like  her  and  be  her  friends.  How 
strange  it  was,  when  she  had  dreaded  something  alarm- 
ing and  something  boring.  She  was  hardly  conscious 
that  they  looked  at  her  with  keen  eyes  and  brains,  so 
definitely  did  she  feel  herself  greeted  by  warm  hearts. 
She  was  for  an  instant  deeply  moved. 

"My  mother,  Claudia,  Pulcinella  .  .  ."  said  Edgar, 
with  a  minimum  of  awkwardness. 

There  were  two  warm  hand-clasps,  and  a  glance,  ever 
so  rapid,  at  Claudia;  and  Patricia  saw  the  little  dog's 
tail  twisting,  and  stooped  to  pat  the  glossy  body  which 
was  being  shyly  insinuated  into  her  notice  by  its  agree- 
able owner.  In  the  firelight  and  gaslight  there  was 
cheerfulness,  but  there  was  peace  also,  and  it  was  the 
tranquillity — the  homely  quality  of  peace — that  Patricia 
first  noticed.  She  saw  it  for  a  moment  only;  and  then 
Claudia  led  the  way  up  to  a  bedroom  in  which  she  could 
remove  her  cloak  and  hat,  and  smooth  her  hair,  and  if 
necessary,  powder  her  face  before  dinner.  But  Patri- 
cia had  no  need  to  powder  her  face,  and  so  the  two  girls 
had  no  opportunity  for  any  prolonged  mutual  scrutiny 
by  means  of  the  mirror.  They  were  shy  of  each  other, 
and  hardly  spoke  together  until  their  return  to  the  draw- 
ing-room. It  was  then  that  Patricia,  sitting  down,  first 
properly  glimpsed  the  Mayne  household,  which  by  now 
had  been  brought  to  full  strength  by  the  arrival  of  old 
Mr.  Mayne  and  a  sedate  cat  whose  name  was  Percy. 

Mr.  Mayne  was  a  man  of  over  sixty,  small  and  thin, 
with  a  fierce  aspect  and  a  ridiculously  mild  voice.  He 
had  a  moustache  and  beard  resembling  the  pictures  Pat- 
ricia had  seen  of  pirates.  His  eyes  were  commanding. 
Only  his  voice  was  inappropriate.  It  was  a  clear  deep 
voice,  but  it  lacked  volume;  and  in  face  of  such  a  terri- 


ENCOUNTER  193 

fying  presence  it  came  as  the  bleat  of  the  kid  from  the 
mouth  of  the  jaguar.  His  wife  was  equally  gentle,  but 
she  looked  placid,  and  in  Mrs.  Mayne  there  were  no 
sharp  contrasts.  She  was  round,  plump,  and  cheerful, 
the  sort  of  a  woman  upon  whose  lap  a  ball  of  wool  re- 
fuses to  stay,  especially  when  there  is  a  little  dog  at 
hand.  Very  different  from  these  were  the  two  children. 
For  Edgar  Patricia  was  conscious  of  an  increasing  sense 
of  respect.  She  now  saw  that  his  quietness  had  its 
quality  and  interest.  His  rather  grave  face,  with  its 
general  air  of  brownness,  was  not  one  which  attracted 
her;  but  he  looked  well-built,  and  her  friendliness 
towards  him  would  have  been  perfect  if  she  had  not  felt 
one  very  singular  thing  about  Edgar.  It  was  that  he 
went  his  own  way.  With  great  considerateness  of  oth- 
ers, she  was  sure,  but  quite  inhumanly,  he  went  his  own 
way.  Patricia  felt  that  if  he  decided  to  do  a  thing  an 
effort  beyond  her  own  power  would  be  needed  to  turn 
him  from  his  object.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  that 
he  was  not  subject  to  human  weaknesses,  and  she  re- 
sented the  aloofness  created  by  this  freedom. 

Claudia  was  different  again,  but  not  equally  discon- 
certing. She  was  tall,  and  noticeably  pretty,  with  a 
very  occasional  immaturity  of  gesture  which  indicated 
her  youthfulness.  Dark,  and  a  little  like  her  brother, 
she  had  a  gaiety  of  demeanour  and  a  sparkling  air  of 
enthusiasm  which  his  temperament  forbade.  To  Pat- 
ricia there  was  something  irresistibly  charming  and  wise 
about  Claudia.  That  she  also  went  her  own  way,  if  such 
was  the  case,  caused  in  Claudia's  case  no  barrier  between 
them.  It  was  natural  and  right  that  Claudia,  being  a 
modern  young  woman,  should  go  her  own  way.  Pat- 
ricia went  her  own  way.  She  thought  of  Claudia: 
"She's  prettier  than  I  am,  but  her  figure  isn't  as  good. 
Nor's  her  taste.  She  doesn't  dress  as  well  as  I  do. 


194  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

She's  very  clever  and  kind  and  nice.  I  like  her.  Of 
course,  not  as  clever  or  as  nice  as  I  am.  But  then 
I'm  .  .  ." 

It  was  extremely  pleasant  to  be  in  a  comfortable  home 
which  really  was  a  home,  and  to  be  in  the  company  of 
such  born  friends  as  the  Maynes.  Patricia  sighed  with 
content. 

ii 

She  had  not  noticed  Percy,  who  had  entered  the  room 
during  her  absence;  and  Percy,  who  had  been  washing 
his  face,  had  not  noticed  Patricia.  When  he  discovered 
that  a  stranger  was  in  the  room  Percy  was  slightly  an- 
noyed. He  did  not  like  strangers.  It  had  taken  him 
some  weeks  to  grow  used  to  Pulcinella  and  even  now 
he  sometimes  spat  at  the  little  dog,  for  Percy  had  been 
for  three  years  the  dominating  force  in  this  house.  When 
Percy  wished  to  leave  or  to  enter  a  room  he  gave  a 
single  blood-curdling  deep  miaow;  when  he  thought  the 
time  had  come  for  him  to  be  nursed  he  took  his  welcome 
for  granted ;  when  he  shook  off  the  years  and  demanded 
a  game  they  were  all  at  his  service.  Although  Pulcin- 
ella was  insistently  lively,  no  real  romp  ever  occurred  in 
which  Percy  was  not  the  leader.  Even  Pulcinella,  who 
barked  and  bounded  in  the  effort  to  produce  a  mock- 
battle,  was  afraid  of  Percy;  and  the  human  beings  were 
not  so  much  afraid  as  respectful  and  affectionate  towards 
him.  Percy  therefore  disliked  strangers,  who  disturbed 
his  sense  of  what  was  proper.  Pausing  in  the  act  of 
licking  delicately  extended  fingers,  he  stared  rudely  at 
Patricia.  He  decided  to  watch  her  for  a  few  moments 
before  making  up  his  mind  as  to  her  acceptability  as  a 
new  acquaintance. 

Patricia,  quite  unconscious  of  this  important  scrutiny, 
was  allowing  herself  to  be  entertained  by  Percy's  elders. 


ENCOUNTER  195 

She  did  not  see  a  big  Persian  cat,  whose  long  hair  was 
nearly  as  black  as  his  dignified  nose  and  whose  tail,  when 
paraded,  was  as  large  as  an  ostrich  feather.  She  merely 
looked  from  the  small  face  with  bushy  whiskers  of  Mr. 
Mayne  to  the  beautiful  soft  complexion  of  Mrs.  Mayne, 
and  again  to  the  exuberantly  expressive  eyes  and  lips 
of  Claudia.  She  liked  Claudia  better  and  better  each 
minute.  She  did  not  look  at  all  at  Edgar,  in  whom  she 
was  conscious  of  feeling  no  true  interest  whatever. 

"Isn't  it  very  lonely  for  you  to  live  alone,  Miss  Quin  ?" 
Mrs.  Mayne  was  asking.  She  did  not  wait  for  an  an- 
swer ;  but  continued :  "I've  never  lived  alone,  so  I  don't 
know  what  it's  like;  but  I  should  have  thought  it  likely 
to  make  a  young  girl  miserable.  Yet  I  know,  of  course, 
that  one  sometimes  wishes  very  much  to  be  alone  with 
one's  thoughts.  As  a  holiday  it  must  be  very  pleas- 
ant. .  .  .  '  It  was  the  quiet  voice  of  a  contented 
woman  that  meandered  slowly  and  almost  prattlingly 
among  words  that  came  without  effort. 

"Think  of  the  liberty,  mother!"  exclaimed  Claudia. 
"Not  always  having  other  people  to  consider.  Not  al- 
ways having  somebody  to  say  she  isn't  ladylike." 

"I  like  it,"  said  Patricia.  "And  I'm  not  at  all  lady- 
like." 

"Perhaps  you're  not  much  alone?"  suggested  Claudia. 

"Oh,  yes.  All  day.  But  I'm  generally  out  in  the 
evenings." 

"Claudia  always  speaks  as  though  I  were  a  fault-find- 
ing mother ;  but  it  isn't  true,  and  I  don't  think  she  means 
it  altogether.  I  should  be  sorry  to  think  I  was  a  fault- 
finder," ruminated  Mrs.  Mayne. 

"You're  a  darling,"  Claudia  declared.  "But,  like 
most  mothers,  you  live  in  the  past.  You  don't  feel  that 
you're  grown  up  and  that  you  don't  understand  this 
generation.  That's  what  I  complain  of."  She  turned 


196  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

to  Patricia.  "This  is  a  very  difficult  household.  Father 
doesn't  care  two  straws  about  anything  that  goes  on  out- 
side the  house,  except  the  things  that  are  put  into  news- 
papers. He  would  write  letters  to  the  papers,  only  he 
prides  himself  on  never  having  written  to  the  papers. 
He's  conceited  about  it.  That's  what  saves  us  endless 
humiliation.  Mother  thinks  the  world's  a  very  distress- 
ing place,  and  the  latest  sort  of  girls  very  top-heavy  and 
reckless  and  .  .  ." 

"I  don't  think  they're  very  happy,"  urged  Mrs.  Mayne. 

"Perhaps  they're  not.  All  the  better.  Perhaps  some- 
thing will  come  of  it — unless  they  enjoy  their  unhappi- 
ness  too  much,  as  some  of  them  do.  She  doesn't  under- 
stand that  there  have  been  changes  since  she  was  a  girl." 

"Only  too  well."     Mrs.  Mayne  showed  spirit. 

"Well,  she  doesn't  sympathise  with  them.  She 
doesn't  realise  her  standards  don't  apply  to  to-day. 
She's  absolutely " 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  faulty,"  agreed  Mrs.  Mayne,  al- 
most approvingly.  Edgar  laughed  at  his  mother's  un- 
quenchable power  to  discomfit  Claudia,  and  the  two  ex- 
changed a  glance. 

"As  for  Edgar,"  proceeded  Claudia,  "he's  quite  hope- 
less. I  bring  friends  here,  and  he  thinks  they're  awful. 
So  they  are — he's  quite  right.  But  I  shouldn't  know 
they  were  awful  if  he  didn't  point  it  out.  That's  the 
disastrous  consequences  of  bringing  people  here.  Ed- 
gar says  nothing  about  them  at  all,  and  so  he  stimulates 
my  corrosive  faculty.  He'll  drive  me  to  having  surrepti- 
tious friends." 

Patricia's  nose  was  a  little  in  the  air. 

"I  don't  think  he's  very  human,"  she  said. 

"You  see  ?"  Claudia  looked  in  triumph  at  her  brother. 
To  Patricia,  she  continued.  "The  trouble  about  him  is, 
he's  a  good  man.  He's  old-fashioned.  He  has  princi- 


ENCOUNTER  197 

pies.  Jt[g_ajiuisance  jwhen  a  man  has  principles.  He 
was  brought  up  to  think  it  was  the  thing  To  be  decent  and 
honourable,  and  so  on.  He  doesn't  live  in  our  age  at 
all,  when  everybody's  trying  hard  to  be  wicked  and  only 
half-succeeding." 

"I  know,"  agreed  Patricia,  relishing  the  irony  but  per- 
ceiving the  truth  of  her  new  friend's  analysis.  "I  think 
it's  impossible  for  one  generation  to  understand  the 
next." 

"Exactly.  But  the  next  can  understand  the  one 
— like  winking." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  easy  to  understand,"  said  Mrs. 
Mayne.  "Edgar  isn't.  I've  never  understood  him.  Or, 
for  that  matter,  Claudia,  although  she's  my  own  daugh- 
ter." 

"You  know  too  much  about  me  to  understand  me, 
mother,"  cried  Claudia,  "That's  true,  isn't  it,  Edgar? 
Too  many  things,  I  mean." 

"It's  certainly  ingenious,"  agreed  Edgar,  quietly.  He 
had  hitherto  been  listening  in  silence  to  the  debate,  al- 
though all  had  been  aware  of  his  presence. 

"What  nonsense!"  cried  Mrs.  Mayne. 

Patricia  thought:  How  nice  and  silly  they  are  with 
each  other!  Her  spirits  rose  yet  higher.  She  felt  that 
here  the  talk  was  the  kind  of  talk — nonsensical  and  yet 
true — that  she  liked  above  every  other  kind.  It  was 
clear  and  light,  without  strain  and  without  stereotyped 
slang.  After  so  much  that  was  quite  otherwise,  that 
aped  smartness  and  achieved  only  repetition,  this  chat- 
ter gave  her  ease  of  heart  as  nothing  else  could  have  done. 
She  smiled  upon  them  all,  impulsively,  so  that  Edgar 
turned  away  to  hide  his  passionate  relief. 


198  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iii 

"Dinner  is  served,  ma'am,"  said  the  pretty  maid,  at 
the  door.  They  all  moved  forward,  leaving  Percy  at 
his  toilet  and  losing  Pulcinella  en  route. 

Patricia,  leading  the  way  with  Mrs.  Mayne,  saw  the 
dining  room  with  a  friendly  and  interested  eye;  and  as 
the  chairs  and  sideboard  were  all  of  old  mahogany,  she 
supposed  herself  to  be  amid  the  relics  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Mayne's  early  married  life.  The  room  was  large  and 
lofty,  and  the  mahogany  furniture  suited  it,  so  much 
did  the  shape  and  arrangement  of  everything  accord. 
It  was  very  different  from  the  drawing  room,  where  the 
note  had  been  a  light  grey,  with  loose  covers  of  flowered 
chintz  upon  the  more  comfortable  seats  and  curtains  of 
a  shade  warmer  than  that  which  otherwise  prevailed. 
Here  in  the  dining  room  the  curtains  were  dark  and  the 
gas-shades  mellow  in  tone.  Everything  was  subdued. 
It  was  an  "old"  room,  not  at  all  what  she  would  have 
expected  from  her  quick  imagination  of  Claudia's  taste. 
Well,  that  was  a  puzzle  the  more.  Involuntarily  she 
shook  her  head.  In  this  house  the  older  people  counted 
more  heavily  than  she  could  have  expected.  The 
younger  ones  were  not  all-powerful.  She  guessed  that 
the  drawing  room  represented  the  farthest  concession 
Mrs.  Mayne  would  make  to  modernity;  and  it  was  al- 
ready fifteen  years  out  of  date.  She  did  not  realise  that 
it  heralded  the  coming  revival  of  Liberty  in  house-dec- 
oration. 

Her  insight  was  gone  as  quickly  as  it  had  come.  Pat- 
ricia hardly  knew  what  had  been  her  impression,  so  much 
less  apt  was  she  in  thought  than  in  intuitive  knowledge. 
She  was  still  charmed;  but  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Mayne 
also  was  in  the  habit  of  going  her  own  way.  It  was  a 
family  habit.  Patricia  could  not  restrain  a  half -glance 


ENCOUNTER  199 

at  the  whiskered  Mr.  Mayne,  who  sat  with  such  benig- 
nant fierceness  at  the  head  of  the  table.  Was  his  pic- 
torial ferocity  merely  a  compensation?  Or  was  his 
mildness  the  serenity  of  a  dictator?  Perhaps  even  Mr. 
Mayne  .  .  .  She  was  deeply  and  childishly  impressed. 
For  an  instant  her  self-assurance  trembled.  Patricia, 
of  course,  was  unquestionably  Patricia  and  in  that  re- 
spect unique;  but  could  there  possibly  be  other  people — 
other  real  people — than  Patricia  in  the  world?  It  had 
seemed  in  that  very  uncomfortable  instant  PS  though 
there  might  be  four  others.  With  something  like  panic, 
she  raised  her  spoon  from  the  table. 

iv 

"What  I  should  like  to  do,"  explained  Claudia,  "would 
be  to  re-shuffle  the  world  a  little.     I  could  do  it  so  nicely. 
I'd  separate  people  under  forty  and  people  over  forty. \ 
They  could  meet,  and  talk,  and  the  people  over  forty  i 
wouldn't  be  made  to  feel  they  were  quite  useless;  but  , 
they  shouldn't  have  any  power  over  the  younger  ones." 

"It  would  be  a  splendid  idea."  Patricia  was  eagerly 
responsive. 

"For  a  month,"  agreed  Mrs.  Mayne,  with  her  natural 
irony. 

"For  always,"  firmly  insisted  Claudia.  "Oh,  you'd 
see  a  change." 

"Forty  in  years?"  asked  Edgar.  "Isn't  that  rather 
arbitrary  ?" 

"I  didn't  mean  I'd  destroy  them.  Only  separate 
them." 

Edgar  laughed  a  little. 

"I  believe  you'd  have  a  reactionary  'left'  even  then," 
he  said,  agreeably.  "And  a  revolutionary  'right,'  too. 
And  another  thing,  Claudia  .  .  .  you  don't  take  into  ac- 


200  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

count  the  fact  that  some  quite  young  people  are  obscur- 
antist. When  you  think  of  young  people  you  always 
think  of  yourself.  Never  of  Johnny  Rix  or  Daphne 
Petton.  ..." 

"Oh,  but  they're  awful!  I'd  expose  them  at  birth!" 
declared  Claudia. 

Edgar  was  unconvinced.     He  shook  his  head. 

"You  can't  be  everywhere  at  once,"  he  warned. 

"Well,  there's  Miss  Quin  .  .  ." 

"Two  of  you — against  a  multitude." 

"You're  hopelessly  cynical,  Edgar.  Miss  Quin,  he's 
a  Pyrrhonist,  I  find." 

"Good  gracious!"  Patricia  was  astounded.  "What's 
that?" 

"Nothing.     Simply  nothing  at  all." 

"Inhuman?"  asked  Patricia,  hopefully. 

"Perfectly.  I  forget  whether  it  comes  from  a  man 
or  a  place;  but  he  doesn't  believe  in  anything  at  all.  It's 
a  ghastly  state  of  mind  to  be  in." 

"Really,  Claudia;  you're  too  sweeping,"  protested 
Mrs.  Mayne.  "Anybody  would  think  Edgar  wasn't  the 
kindest  and  best " 

"Oh,  ever  so  good.  Good  unbelievably.  Kind  .  .  . 
Frightfully  interested  in  the  insect  world  of  human  be- 
ings. Considerate — as  few  men  are  considerate — to  the 
poor  creatures  who  live  around  him." 

"And  very  tolerant  of  Claudia,"  pursued  Mrs.  Mayne, 
turning  to  Patricia.  "Oh,  dear,  this  fish  is  over-cooked, 
Rachel,  and  I  particularly  .  .  .  However,  it's  no  good 
grumbling.  ...  I  hope  you'll  like  it,  my  dear.  We 
have  a  very  good  fishmonger,  and  a  very  good  cook,  too ; 
but  .  .  .  Edgar,  I  wish  you'd  speak  for  yourself. 
Gaudia  will  give  Miss  Quin  such  a  peculiar  .  .  ." 

"He  doesn't  care  .  .  ."  Claudia  looked  across  at  her 
brother.  "Do  you?" 


ENCOUNTER  201 

Patricia  could  tell  that  he  did  not  care.  He  was  quite 
unconcerned.  A  slight  grimness  came  into  her  expres- 
sion. She  wished  him  less  unconcerned.  She  would 
have  liked  to  believe  in  Edgar's  susceptibility  to  pain. 
As  it  was,  he  seemed  invulnerable.  Patricia  turned  once 
more  to  Claudia  with  great  sympathy  and  friendliness. 

"I  think  your  idea's  very  attractive,"  she  said.  "About 
the  division." 

Mr.  Mayne  gave  a  short,  rather  sardonic  laugh. 

"Wine's  corked,"  he  remarked.  "Take  it  away,  Ra- 
chel. And  bring  another  bottle.  With  the  chill  off. 
Properly.  Not  roasted.  ..." 

Patricia  lost  her  head.  A  tremulous  twitching  seized 
the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  tried  to  control  herself, 
and  became  desperate  in  the  effort.  In  another  instant 
she  felt  that  she  must  giggle.  Fortunately  there  came  a 
diversion  which  saved  her. 

"Miaow!"  cried  Percy,  from  outside  the  door. 

"What  a  menagerie  it  is!"  said  Mr.  Mayne,  in  a  sav- 
age tone.  "It's  incredible!  Let  him  in,  let  him  in! 
Of  course,  it's  the  fish.  I  never  knew  a  cat  .  .  ."  His 
voice,  even  in  this  protest,  was  very  low.  He  spoke  as 
hushedly  as  a  man  telling  a  tale  of  horror. 

It  was  then  that  Patricia  saw  that  behind  his  ferocious 
air  Mr.  Mayne  could  hardly  restrain  his  own  ridiculous 
laughter.  She  looked  swiftly  round  the  table,  from  one 
to  the  other,  from  Edgar,  to  whom  her  glance  first  went, 
to  Gaudia,  at  his  side.  All  were  smiling,  as  if  good- 
naturedly  and  at  something  absurd.  Uncontrollably 
she  laughed  a  little,  thankful  to  find  that  they  were  not 
even  solemn.  And  as  she  did  this  Percy  appeared. 
Patricia  had  a  glimpse  of  brilliant  eyes  and  a  huge  wav- 
ing- tail  which  stood  high  above  Percy's  body  as  he  made 
a  leisurely  entrance. 


202  THE  THREE  LOVERS 


"Do  you  go  to  the  theatre  much,  Miss  Quin?  My 
husband  and  I  sometimes  go,  but  it  always  seems  to  me 
that  it's  only  an  excuse  for  going  out  to  dinner  and  for 
dressing  up  and  seeing  crowds  of  expensively-dressed 
people  who  are  enjoying  the  same  experience.  I'm  really 
much  happier  at  home  with  a  book.  Although  the  books 
nowadays  don't  seem  to  be  as  interesting  as  they  were. 
They're  not  very  amusing.  Very  clever,  I  suppose,  tell- 
ing us  all  about  our  thoughts — which  I'm  sure  we  never 
have — and  about  young  men  and  girls  who  seem  to  me 
to  be  very  disagreeable  and  morbid  and  get  themselves 
into  sad  trouble  about  things  that  don't  happen  to  any 
of  our  friends.  Do  you  like  them?" 

"I'm  never  quite  sure,"  admitted  Patricia.  "They  are 
very  clever,  of  course." 

"I  wonder  if  cleverness  is  a  good  thing.  Is  it,  Ed- 
gar?" 

"Very  good  thing,  mother,"  said  Edgar,  obediently,  as 
if  he  had  been  thinking  of  something  else. 

"He  doesn't  think  so !"  declared  Claudia.  "Nor  do  I. 
^Jt^s^nlyself-consciousness." 

MrsTMayne  appeared  to  digest  the  information.  Un- 
checked, she  thoughtfully  continued: 

"People  are  self-conscious,  of  course.  Even  I  notice 
that.  Of  course,  I'm  old;  and  so  I  take  an  interest  in 
what  other  people  are  doing.  But  I  don't  think  I  was 
ever  any  different.  I'm  sure  I'm  not  always  thinking 
about  myself  or  my  own  affairs,  which  is  all  that  seems 
to  engross  most  of  the  people  Claudia  brings  to  the 
house.  They  seem  rather  peculiar.  I'm  not  always  say- 
ing that  the  young  ones  don't  understand  me " 

"It  wouldn't  be  true,"  interjected  Claudia.  "It  would 
be  absurd." 


ENCOUNTER  203 

"I  think  it  might  be  true.    But  we  hear  nothing  at  all 
from  Claudia,  from  morning  to  night,  but  the  great  dis-\ 
advantages  of  young  people ;  and  their  wisdom,  and  f ore-/ 
sight;  and "  / 

"Mother!" 

An  extremely  mischievous  smile  appeared  upon  Mrs. 
Mayne's  face.     With  her  white  hair  and  clear  complex- 
ion, and  in  her  rather  high-cut  dress  of  amber-coloured 
silk,  she  looked,  when  she  smiled,  ageless.     She  was  a 
,  match  for  her  daughter.     Behind  that  rambling  speech 
i  was  a  brain  as  acute  and  as  teasing  in  its  workings  as 
/  anything  Claudia  could  show;  and  Mrs.  Mayne  had  the 
advantage  over  Claudia  that  her  ideas  were  inflexible, 
while  her  daughter's  were  undisciplined  and  often  wholly 
\   undetermined.     Claudia  resumed: 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know,  Miss  Quin,  that  mother's 
very  unscrupulous.  I  mean,  you  must  have  noticed  it 
for  yourself;  but  you're  so  nice  that  perhaps  you  may 
not  have  let  yourself  think  it.  Father  and  I  are  the  only 
people  in  this  house  who  are  scrupulous.  We're  very 
just.  Edgar's  pretty  awful.  But  mother's  unscrupu- 
lousness  passes  all  bounds.  I  ]wve  this  evening  said  a 
few  words  about  young  people,  but  that's  because  of 
something  Edgar  was  saying  earlier  in  the  evening.  He 
said  you  were  a  young  woman,  as  though  that  conveyed 
anything  at  all.  He  was  asked  to  describe  you;  and  he 
said  that." 

"Oh,  more  than  that,"  interpolated  Edgar.     "Surely." 

"That  was  the  principal  thing.  I  said:  'What  sort 
of  a  young  woman?'  and  mother  admitted  that  'young 
woman'  sounded  like  a  term  of  reproach.  Which  it 
certainly  is.  She  admitted  it." 

Patricia  looked  across  at  Edgar  with  some  resentment, 
but  also  with  some  pity.  He  was  eating  his  dinner  in 


204  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

tranquillity,  and  Patricia  felt  a  sudden  suppression  of 
anger  in  her  breast. 

"After  all,"  she  said,  quietly.  "He's  a  'young  man.' 
I  don't  know  which  is  more  of  a  term  of  reproach.  We^) 
can't  help  our  age  or  our  sex.  But  for  some  reason  / 
women  cannot  get  men  to  think  of  them  as  human  be-  J 
ings.  Always,  they're  regarded  as  women,  and  never/ 
as  individuals." 

"I  think  it's  because  men  are  rather  new  to  the  idea 
that  they  are  individuals,  and  because  women  also  are 
rather  self-conscious  about  it.  They  haven't  had  an  in- 
dividual life  for  very  long.  Don't  you  think  so,  Miss 
Quin?" 

Patricia,  recovering  a  little  from  her  enthusiasm,  shook 
her  head,  smiling  as  if  with  greater  wisdom. 

"I  think  it's  because  women  are  simply  rather  con- 
ceited," remarked  Edgar,  in  a  surprised  tone.  "The 
temptation  to  conceited  men  is  to  take  them  down  a  peg." 

A  jerk  seemed  to  shake  Patricia.  So  that  was  what 
he  thought!  She  understood  now  the  reason  of  her 
lack  of  sympathy  with  him.  He  was  indifferent.  He 
cared  for  nothing  but  his  own  egotism.  In  that  he  re- 
sembled other  men,  no  doubt ;  but  in  his  case  the  offence 
took  an  extreme  form.  He  did  not  appreciate  Patricia 
Quin !  He  thought  her  conceited.  He  did  not  take  her 
seriously.  It  was  unpardonable,  since  it  showed  in- 
vincible stupidity.  But  what  did  it  matter,  after  all? 
Patricia  decided  suddenly  that  she  did  not  like  him,  that 
she  had  never  liked  him.  When  she  looked  at  Edgar 
she  could  tell  that  such  a  man,  so  free  from  human 
weakness,  and  so  incapable  of  appreciating  anything 
which  did  not  accord  with  his  prejudices,  would  never  be 
able  to  inspire  real  affection. 


ENCOUNTER  205 

vi 

After   dinner  a  number  of   Claudia's    friends   came 
either  unexpectedly  or  upon  some  casual  invitation  from 
Claudia.     All  were  young  men  and  women  of  refined 
tastes;  and  for  a  short  time  during  their  restless  incur- 
sion there  was  a  good  deal  of  chatter.     Patricia  found 
herself  not  quite  so  much  at  home  as  she  had  been.     She 
wished  it  had  not  been  thought  necessary — if  that  were 
indeed  the  case — for  others  to  be  invited.     She  felt  so 
much  older  than  Claudia's  friends,  so  much  superior  to 
them  in  intelligence  and  knowledge  of  the  world.     They 
produced  a  superficial  air  of  bustle  and  jollity;  but  it 
was  all  so  naive  as  to  be  tiresome  and  stupid.     Claudia 
was  different.     She  at  least  had  brains  and  high  spirits. 
She  also  had  vitality.     But  the  others  were  so  many  boys 
and  girls,  and  not  of  the  kind  of  boy  and  girl  that  Pat- 
ricia had  recently  begun  to  find  amusing.     These  had  no 
spice  of  danger  about  them;  and  Patricia  had  developed 
of  late  a  new  craving  for  just  this  spice.     The  girls  were 
good  suburban  girls ;  the  boys  good  suburban  boys.     Not 
one  of  them  seemed  to  have  a  lurking  devil.     Quickly 
the  party  became  what  Patricia  had  feared  it  would  be. 
It  became  insipid.     Mrs.  Mayne,  from  even  the  teasing 
and  mischievous  old  lady  of  the  dinner,  grew  into  such 
a  woman  as  her  placid  appearance  would  have  indicated. 
Edgar  and  his  father  both  disappeared,  the  former  to 
return  after  not  more  than  half-an-hour,  during  which 
— as  he  supposed  that  Patricia  would  be  amusingly  em- 
ployed— he  had  cleared  off  some  arrears  of  work.     If 
it  had   not  been   for  Claudia,   Patricia's   spirits   would 
deeply  have  been  sunk  into  boredom. 

But  at  last  the  evening  took  a  turn.  The  visitors, 
having  stayed  an  hour,  went  as  suddenly  as  they  had 
come.  Supper  brought  her  once  more  within  the  circle 


206  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

of  the  Maynes ;  and  she  and  Claudia  and  Edgar  were  at 
a  table  together.  Edgar  seemed  preoccupied;  but  noth- 
ing could  check  Claudia's  high  spirits.  She  and  her 
mother  sparred  with  considerable  spirit.  Patricia  de- 
lighted in  the  happy  relationship.  She  found  herself  as 
the  evening  advanced  recovering  all  the  zest  that  she  had 
lost  on  the  coming  of  the  juvenile  visitors.  Called  upon 
to  do  so,  she  even  gave  her  impressions  of  those  who  had 
called,  and  during  this  period  she  could  not  help  glancing 
at  Edgar  to  see  whether  he  was  amused  at  her  comments. 
To  her  chagrin,  Edgar  remained  serious.  Although  he 
smiled,  his  expression  was  grave.  He  was  not  attend- 
ing. Patricia  hardened.  Such  neglect  chilled  her,  so 
unusual  was  it.  Swiftly  her  resentment  at  his  implied 
belief  in  her  conceitedness  returned  and  increased.  It 
was  not  known  to  her  that  during  his  absence  from  the 
room  Edgar  had  discovered  something  which  had,  given 
him  a  great  shock.  She  judged  only  by  her  own  ego- 
centric knowledge,  and  she  accordingly  misinterpreted 
his  mood.  Only  to  Edgar,  therefore,  was  Patricia's 
manner  at  all  cold.  But  he  presently  shook  off  what- 
ever had  been  the  matter  which  had  made  him  thought- 
ful, and  as  he  became  animated  Patricia  was  lured  farther 
and  farther  from  her  grievance,  until  at  last  it  was  for 
the  time  altogether  forgotten. 

By  then  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  evening  was 
ended.  After  warm  exchanges  of  kind  expressions  be- 
tween herself  and  Claudia,  and  after  a  further  invita- 
tion from  Mrs.  Mayne,  Patricia  found  herself  walking 
through  the  dark  streets  by  Edgar's  side. 

"I'm  very  glad  I  came,"  she  told  him  naively.  "I 
think  Claudia's  splendid." 

"You  were  rather  afraid,  weren't  you?"  Edgar  asked. 

"I'm   always  afraid   of   meeting   somebody   new.     I 


ENCOUNTER  207 

feel  at  a  disadvantage.  I'm  afraid  of  meeting  people 
cleverer  than  myself." 

"Oh,  Claudia  isn't  that,"  she  heard  him  say.  Pat- 
ricia's eyes  opened  in  the  safe  darkness.  Oho !  she  won- 
deringly  said  to  herself.  That  did  not  sound  much 
like  an  attempt  to  discourage  a  conceited  young  woman. 
How  strange  he  was! 

"I  think  she  is."  A  very  subdued  voice  conveyed  the 
disclaimer.  Edgar  made  no  reply.  Patricia,  who  be- 
lieved him  incapable  of  inspiring  affection,  felt  a  remark- 
able little  flood  of  liking  fill  her  heart.  What  a  peculiar 
effect  Edgar  had  upon  her.  He  made  her  feel  like  a  very 
small  girl,  much  younger  than  himself,  much  weaker 
and  sillier  and  less  splendid  than  usual,  but  in  no  way 
distressed  by  the  sensation.  Childishly,  there  darted 
into  Patricia's  mind  the  wish  that  she  had  also  possessed 
a  brother — a  brother  something  like  Edgar,  who  could 
understand  what  was  said  to  him,  who  did  not  all  the 
time  make  demands,  who  was  safe  and  sure  and  reliable. 

A  sigh  shook  her.  It  was  so  light  as  to  be  impercepti- 
ble to  her  companion.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  At 
times  in  Patricia's  conquering  life  there  came  instants 
when  she  would  have  given  the  world  to  rest  quite 
quietly  upon  some  such  strong  human  support.  Mo- 
ments of  loneliness  sometimes  assailed  her,  when  a  sus- 
taining hand  would  have  been  of  all  things  the  most  wel- 
come. She  did  not  feel  lonely  with  Edgar — only  happy 
and  at  ease.  She  was  now  very  happy  indeed.  Then 
the  moment's  mood  passed,  and  she  was  once  again  alert, 
and,  immediately  afterwards,  troubled  by  another 
thought.  She  did  not  know  that  she  was  hiding  her 
heart  even  from  herself. 


208  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

vii 

The  walk  from  the  Maynes'  house  was  an  affair  of 
perhaps  half-an-hour.  Their  course  lay  almost  directly 
south;  but  the  intersection  of  the  streets  was  imperfect, 
so  that  they  had  occasionally  to  take  sharp  turns.  It 
was  a  fine  starry  night,  and  the  stars  seemed  to  yellow 
the  lamps  which  at  regular  intervals  shed  very  definitely 
restricted  rays  into  the  darkness.  Tall  houses  stood  erect 
upon  each  side  of  every  road,  and  every  now  and  then 
the  walkers  passed  loitering  couples  or  other  pedestrians. 
Very  few  people,  however,  were  in  the  streets;  for  the 
night,  although  serene,  was* chilly  and  therefore  untempt- 
ing. 

Patricia  could  see  the  lamps  winking  in  the  distance, 
and  whenever  she  came  into  that  little  glow  which  sur- 
rounded each  of  them  she  had  a  curious  sense  of  her 
own  physical  appearance,  as  though  she  could  see  her- 
self. She  walked  well,  and  enjoyed  the  swinging  mo- 
tion. She  felt  strangely  at  peace,  and  spoke  without 
effort.  And  then  suddenly,  when  they  were  close  to  a 
lamppost  and  could  see  all  around  them  faintly  illumi- 
nated, two  other  people — a  man  and  a  girl — coming 
from  the  opposite  direction,  were  simultaneously  within 
the  circle  of  light.  A  quick  greeting  passed,  and  the 
parties  were  once  more  separated,  lost  in  the  immediate 
darkness. 

Neither  Edgar  nor  Patricia  spoke — -Patricia  because 
a  shock  had  gone  straight  to  her  heart  and  left  her 
breathless.  The  two  who  had  thus  unexpectedly  emerged 
and  disappeared  in  that  silent  moment  were  Harry  and 
Rhoda  Flower.  The  shock  had  been  like  a  dagger  in 
Patricia's  heart.  All  her  talk  ceased.  She  felt  that  all 
her  happiness  was  extinguished.  She  continued  to  walk 
by  Edgar's  side;  but  it  was  as  one  numbed  and  be- 


ENCOUNTER  209 

wildered  by  a  tragic  happening.  They  were  both  very 
silent  for  the  remainder  of  the  journey,  all  the  ease  of 
their  companionship  destroyed. 

At  parting  Patricia  kept  her  betraying  face  half  turned 
from  Edgar,  and  stayed  only  for  the  briefest  and  cold- 
est "Good  night,  and  thank  you,"  before  setting  her  key 
to  the  door  and  slipping  into  the  house.  But  Edgar 
had  not  failed  to  see  that  she  was  quite  colourless,  so 
that  he  too  had  something  to  think  about  upon  his  return 
journey. 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN:  THE  SIBYL 


DURING  that  evening  Edgar  had  been  away  from 
the  others  for  about  half-an-hour,  seated  in  his 
room  with  bundles  of  papers  belonging  to  his  business. 
This  was  enforced,  because  his  absence  from  England 
had  led  to  great  accumulations  of  work,  and  only  by 
some  such  evening  trouble  could  he  hope  to  make  good 
the  time  lost  from  the  daily  routine.  So  he  had  been  busy. 
And  quite  by  accident,  Edgar  had  come  across  a  single 
sheet  of  paper  which  had  disturbed  him  out  of  all  pro- 
portion to  its  size  and  importance  among  its  fellows. 
It  was  with  other  papers  in  a  small  bundle  surrounded 
by  an  elastic  band;  and  in  glancing  through  this  bundle, 
flicking  the  letters  apart,  Edgar  had  caught  sight  of  an 
arresting  address.  Hastily,  though  still  without  more 
than  casual  interest,  he  had  stretched  the  band  so  as  to 
see  the  whole  of  the  letter.  It  was  the  signature  which, 
taken  in  conjunction  with  the  heading,  had  brought  an 
exclamation  to  his  lips.  It  had  thrown  him  quite  un- 
expectedly into  a  revelation  concerning  Monty  Rosen- 
berg. It  opened  to  his  investigation  some  at  least  of 
the  interstices  of  Monty's  dark  and  secret  mind. 

The  occasion  of  Monty's  sudden  need  of  money  had 
been  for  Edgar  a  curious  puzzle.  Monty's  unwilling- 
ness to  follow  the  obvious  course,  which  was  to  raise  a 
loan  from  his  bank  to  tide  him  over  the  emergency,  had 
been  another  puzzle.  The  third  puzzle  had  been  his  rea- 
son for  approaching  Edgar  for  assistance.  Edgar  had 

explained  the  third  puzzle  by  the  fact  that  he  had  recently 

210 


THE  SIBYL  211 

been  engaged  in  business  dealings  with  Monty  (over  the 
transfer  to  himself  of  the  "Antiquarian's  Gazette,"  in 
which  no  money  had  passed),  and  the  possibility  that 
Monty,  who  was  secretive  by  nature,  had  no  friend  in- 
timate enough  to  be  asked — without  explanation — for  so 
large  an  amount  as  two-thousand  five-hundred  pounds. 
And  the  other  two  puzzles  were  both  explained  by  the 
letter  which  Edgar  had  discovered. 

The  letter  was  written  upon  a  single  sheet  of  business 
note-paper,  and  was  an  acknowledgment  of  some  trivial 
communication.  But  the  heading  was  that  of  the  South 
Hampstead  branch  of  the  Great  Central  Bank;  and  the 
signature  was  plainly  to  be  read  as  "Frederick  Tallen- 
tyre,  Branch  Manager."  It  became  immediately  clear 
why  Monty  should  have  wished  to  conceal  any  adjust- 
ment of  his  affairs  from  the  manager  of  his  local  bank. 
Less  clear  was  the  immediate  occasion.  Frederick  Tal- 
lentyre  was  the  husband  of  Blanche.  And  Blanche,  un- 
less Edgar's  perceptions  were  at  fault,  was  Monty's  pres- 
ent mistress.  Now  why  should  Monty  want  so  large 
a  sum  at  short  notice?  And  why  should  he  wish  the 
fact  of  his  requiring  a  loan  concealed  from  the  husband 
of  his  mistress? 

That  was  one  of  Edgar's  preoccupations  as  he  walked 
homeward.  As  a  business  man,  he  needed  to  know  as 
much  as  possible  about  all  those  with  whom  he  was  en- 
gaged in  financial  transactions,  and  he  was  not  so  wealthy 
as  to  regard  two-thousand  five-hundred  pounds  as  a  neg- 
ligible sum.  Had  the  money  something  to  do  with 
Blanche?  And,  if  so,  what  had  it  to  do  with  her? 


n 

The   second   and   even   more   pressing   preoccupation 
was  with  Patricia  and  Harry.     It  had  been  clear  to  Ed- 


212  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

gar  that  Patricia,  when  he  met  her  at  Monty's,  was 
changed,  that  she  was  not  at  peace.  She  had  been  rest- 
less and  emotional  beyond  the  ordinary.  It  seemed  that 
her  attitude  to  himself  was  different,  and  less  cordial. 
He  loved  her,  and  any  change  was  thus  of  importance 
to  him.  The  same  air  of  reluctance  in  her  glances  and 
speeches  had  been  apparent  during  this  evening.  Only 
upon  their  walk  had  she  seemed  to  return  to  an  ordinary 
cameraderie.  And  at  the  height  of  their  newly-redis- 
covered ease  this  encounter  with  Harry  Greenlees  had 
spoiled  everything.  Or  had  it  been  the  encounter  with 
Rhoda?  Could  it  be — and  Edgar's  heart  leapt  at  the 
thought — that  Patricia  had  with  chagrin  noticed  him  in 
Rhoda's  company  at  Monty's  party;  had  thought  .  .  . 
It  was  fantastic.  Patricia  was  not  crude  enough  for 
that.  Edgar  brushed  aside  any  notion  so  preposterous. 
Harry,  then.  .  .  .  His  mouth  became  stern. 

Edgar  was  not,  outside  of  business,  analytical;  but 
he  took  intricate  views  of  whatever  was  unfamiliar. 
And  Patricia  was  unfamiliar.  She  was  his  new  and 
precious  delight.  During  the  whole  of  the  evening  he 
had  watched  her  without  direct  scrutiny;  had  felt,  and 
not  calculated,  her  changes  of  expression,  the  quick, 
gentle  turns  of  her  head,  the  speedless  flights  of  amuse- 
ment, interest,  disdain,  hostility,  and  sympathy  which 
were  so  easily  to  be  read.  And  in  each  reference  to 
himself  he  had  discerned  something  unwelcome — flat- 
tering, perhaps,  as  showing  that  she  did  not  ignore  him ; 
but  unwelcome.  All  the  arch  curiosity  which  might 
have  accompanied  any  consciousness  of  attraction  was 
absent.  What  if  this  should  be  explicable  by  some  feel- 
ing for  Harry?  It  might  easily  be  so.  Edgar  knew 
that,  so  far  as  he  could  imagine  the  standards  of  a  young 
girl's  heart  and  mind,  there  was  no  comparison  between 
Harry  and  himself.  Harry  was  a  big  fellow  with  a 


THE  SIBYL  213 

handsome  face,  a  ready  tongue,  charm — with  the  very 
qualities,  in  fact,  to  make  him  the  subject  of  sentimental 
dreams.  And  Edgar  could  not  refuse  to  suppose  Pat- 
ricia capable  of  sentimental  dreams.  He  fought  against 
the  notion;  but  common  sense  had  greater  power  over 
him  than  the  instinct  to  idealise  the  beloved.  He  recog- 
nised that  Patricia,  like  other  young  girls,  was  probably 
romantic.  Well,  he  was  no  figure  of  romance.  That 
was  all.  If  she  employed  romantic  standards  he  stood 
no  chance  of  winning  her  love  in  return  for  his  devo- 
tion. The  battle  was  lost  before  issue  was  joined. 


111 

He  awoke  still  less  sanguine,  but  with  a  grimness 
which  was  not  unfamiliar.  After  all,  he  had  certain 
obvious  advantages.  He  might  be  less  showy  than 
Harry;  but  he  was  not  insignificant.  If  it  came  to  the 
test  of  brain,  his  own  was  not  inferior.  His  position 
was  assured,  while  Harry's  was  probably  that  of  a  free- 
lance— delightful  in  youth,  but  dwindling  and  even  be- 
coming precarious  with  the  passing  of  each  year.  More 
than  that,  however.  Edgar  had  the  knowledge  that 
Harry  succeeded  easily.  He  could  tell  that  Harry  took 
little  heed  for  the  morrow.  That  unlined  youthful  face, 
in  a  man  not  much  younger  than  himself,  told  him  a  good 
deal.  He  put  Harry  down  as  thirty-five.  And  if  a  man  j 
had  not  taken  thought  by  the  time  he  is  thirty-five  he  will  I 
\  never  begin  to  take  thought  after  that  age.  He  may, 
C  harden ;  but  he  will  never  mature.  Also,  if  a  man  is 
not  married  by  the  time  he  is  thirty-five,  there  is  gener- 
!  ally  a  reason.  It  might  be,  as  it  was  in  Edgar's  own 
case,  that  he  has  worked  too  hard,  so  that  all  his  energy 
;  has  been  absorbed.  That  was  not  Harry's  position.  He 
was  not  married  because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  married. 


214  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

He  pleased  too  easily,  and  he  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
who  finds  marriage  an  excellent  starting-point  for  inex- 
haustible love-affairs. 

No!  Edgar  was  quite  generous  to  Harry.  He  saw 
him  as  a  man  free  from  that  skidding  of  the  mind  which 
is  called  sentimentalism.  Love  affairs — yes;  but  always 
sporting.  As  a  man  he  had  no  objection  to  Harry. 
Directly,  however,  Harry  appeared  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Patricia,  the  situation  changed.  It  would  almost 
equally  have  changed  if  Harry  had  begun  to  make  love 
to  Claudia.  He  did  not  know  that  Claudia  would  have 
found  Harry  tiresome;  but  that  was  because  he  did  not 
perceive  that  in  calling  himself  unattractive,  he  spoke 
without  her  authority.  And  as  for  Patricia — who  could 
tell  what  Patricia  thought  or  felt?  For  all  Edgar  knew 
she  might  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  man  whose  danc- 
ing she  so  much  admired;  or  with  the  pink  and  white 
baby  who  performed  with  the  fire-irons,  or  with  Monty 
Rosenberg.  She  might  be  incapable  of  falling  in  love 
with  anybody,  through  self-infatuation,  which  is  a  dis- 
ease greatly  in  vogue  in  modern  times.  She  might  give 
her  love  in  time  even  to  Edgar  Mayne. 

Edgar  somehow  thought,  as  he  shaved,  that  this  was 
not  so  improbable  as  he  had  felt  on  the  previous  evening 
or  upon  his  awakening. 

iv 

Claudia  was  the  first  person  Edgar  encountered  that 
day.  She  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  the  breakfast-room, 
eating  an  apple  and  reading  "The  Daily  Courier."  A 
dress  of  blue  serge  with  a  small  green  collar  and  green 
cuffs  made  her  look  very  slim  and  juvenile.  Her  dark 
hair,  in  a  billow,  hid  part  of  her  face  as  she  bent  over 
the  paper;  and  Edgar  could  barely  catch  a  glimpse  of 
her  eyelashes  and  the  rather  inquisitive  tip  of  her  nose. 


THE  SIBYL  215 

At  the  other  end  of  her  person  there  was  a  considerable 
display  of  ankle,  small  and  well-shaped. 

"Hullo,  good-morning!"  said  Claudia  cheerfully. 
"Nobody  else  down  yet,  my  poor  boy.  And  I  only  got 
up  to  see  you.  I  think  that  girl's  splendid."  She  cast 
aside  her  paper.  "You've  got  good  taste  in  people,  Ed- 
gar. I've  noticed  it.  She's  got  one  fault;  and  I'm  go- 
ing to  cure  her  of  it.  I'm  going  to  take  that  girl  in 
hand." 

"I  wonder  if  she'd  do  the  same  for  you,"  pondered 
Edgar  aloud,  as  he  rang  for  breakfast. 

"She  may  try.  Don't  you  want  to  know  her  fault?" 
asked  Claudia,  with  a  straight  glance. 

"Perhaps  I  know  it." 

"Perhaps  you  do."  The  acknowledgment  was  faintly 
puzzled.  "But  you  like  her,  don't  you?" 

"Very  much." 

"She's  almost  good  enough  for  you  to  marry." 
Claudia  was  reflective. 

"Oh,  not  quite?"  innocently  asked  Edgar.  "No,  I 
suppose  not."  He  was  too  well-acquainted  with  Claudia 
to  be  drawn,  even  if  he  had  supposed  her  to  be  angling 
for  an  admission,  which  she  was  not. 

"Is  she  rich?" 

"I've  no  idea." 

"I  shall  find  out.  I  '^u^I  "hor s  P°or-  And  that's 
one  reason  why  this  fault  •-  ..&'  is  a  danger." 

They  seated  themselves  at  the  table,  and  began  to  eat 
moderately  warm  breakfast. 

"Why  do  you  think  it's  a  danger?"  asked  Edgar. 

"Well  .  .  ."  Claudia  spoke  with  her  mouth  full; 
but  she  was  full  of  candour,  because  she  and  Edgar  were 
the  best  friends  in  the  world.  "You  see,  Edgar,  she's 
conceited.  It  may  be  only  skin  deep;  but  if  it  isn't,  then 
she's  hopeless.  I  mean,  if  it's  ingrained." 


216  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Edgar  felt  a  creeping  of  the  flesh.  His  grave  ex- 
pression of  interest  did  not  change;  but  his  breath  was 
a  little  short. 

"She's  very  young,  of  course,"  he  objected.  "Isn't 
conceit  a  phase  with  some  people?" 

"I  hope  to  cure  her.  But  you'd  admit  it's  a  very  dan- 
gerous thing  to  have  in  the  blood." 

"You're  very  wise,  Claudia,"  he  said,  after  a  pause. 

"I'm  vain;  and  you're  proud  (which  is  a  sort  of  van- 
ity) ;  and  we're  both  obstinate.  But  we're  not  con- 
ceited. Now  Patricia  thinks  no  end  of  herself.  She's 
got  the  idea  that  there's  something  wonderful  just  in  the 
fact  that  she's  herself.  At  least,  I  think  so." 

"She  thought  you  were  cleverer  than  she  was.  She 
liked  you." 

"Well,  that's  good,"  said  Claudia.  Edgar  smiled. 
"No,  don't  you  see,  it's  good  because  it  shows  .  .  .  All 
the  same,  its  wrong  to  compare  yourself." 

"I've  just  been  comparing  myself  with  another  man. 
I  thought  I  came  out  of  it  rather  well,  on  the  whole  .  .  ."" 

"Silly!     That  sort  of  thing's  .  .  ." 

"I  was  quite  serious." 

"Then  you're  in  love.  That's  all  I  can  say.  And  I 
don't  want  you  to  be  in  love — yet  I  like  Patricia  aw- 
fully. I'm  going  to  sge  her;  and  I  think  I'm  going  to 
cure  her  of  her  fault.';  ^^d*  T  don't  cure  her,  then  I'd 
sooner  you  didn't  fall  n,  _•  with  her." 

"I  don't  think  we'll  quite  assume  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Edgar.  You  can't  bring  a  girl  to  this  house 
without  my  realising  that  something's  up.  You'll  grant 
that,  won't  you?  I  don't  mean  the  ordinary  inspection. 
Less  crude  than  that,  I  hope.  But  none  the  less  pretty 
obvious." 

"I  can  see  that  it  was  a  very  incautious  thing  to  do," 
admitted  Edgar,  solemnly. 


THE  SIBYL  217 

"Therefore — "  "Miaow!"  cried  Percy  from  outside 
the  door.  Claudia  rose  to  admit  him,  speaking  as  she 
crossed  the  room.  "Therefore — good-morning1,  Percy 
— I  consider  that  I'm  called  on  to  protect  you.  You're 
fortunate  in  having  me.  Of  course,  mother's  fallen  in 
love  with  her  on  the  spot;  and  hopes  she  will  attract 
you." 

For  the  first  time  Edgar  showed  signs  of  embarrassed 
exasperation. 

"She's  idiotic!"  he  muttered. 

"The    older   generation,"    calmly    explained    Claudia. 
"That's  what  that  is.     You'd  admit  that  I'm  much  more 
realistic.     I'm  not  by  any  means   sure  that   Patricia's 
.  .  .  well,  eager  to  attract  you.     She  ought  to  be,  be- 
cause you're  the  best  man  she's  ever  likely  to  meet.     But 
you  can't  tell.     When  a  girl's  conceited,  she  tries  tETs 
{rnan  and  that  until  she's  afraid  of  missing  the  train  al- 
j  together.     And  then  she  plunges,  and  .  .  .  well!"     ^ 
*      "Claudia,  you  make  me  uncomfortable  by  your  pro- 
fundity," said  Edgar,  respectfully. 

She  bowed  to  him  across  the  table.    . 

"Mother  says  I'm  an  enfant  terrible.  I  have  already 
told  her  that  I'm  a  child  of  my  generation.  In  some 
ways  I  know  much  more  than  you  do,  Edgar." 

"In  all,  my  dear.  In  all,"  was  his  modest  rejoinder. 
"You  also  talk  more.  But  I  hope  you  will  save  Pat- 
ricia." 

"If  I  don't,  nobody  can,"  said  Claudia.  "But  she 
may  have  to  have  a  ...  Well,  we'll  see.  I  was  going 
to  say  she  might  have  to  burn  her  fingers.  I  wonder  how 
you'd  like  that.  Not  much,  I  expect.  Edgar,  there's 
something  I  want  to  ask  you.  ..." 


218  THE  THREE  LOVERS 


Edgar  looked  at  his  watch. 

"I  oughtn't  to  stay,"  he  said.  "Fill  my  cup  first.  I 
shall  be  listening." 

"What's  a  man's  feeling  about  a  girl?"  Edgar 
waited.  "I  mean,  about  things  she  does." 

"What  things?" 

"Reckless  things.    Silly  things.    I  expect  men  feel  dif-  \ 
ferent  things — and  different  things  about  different  girls  / 
— and  different  things  about  different  girls  at  different  J 
times.     But  what  I  mean  is  this.     All  girls  except  me 
have  very  much  more  liberty  than  they  used  to  do. — 
Well,  even  me,  then;  but  they  use  their  freedom  differ- 
ently.    They  go  about  freely,  and  so  on.     Don't  they? 
Well,  they  do  silly  things — compromise  themselves." 

"I  should  think  it's  harder  to  do  that  now  than  it  used 
to  be." 

"It's  very  funny — I  don't  think  it  is,  somehow.  It's 
all  a'  convention.  You  can  do  certain  things;  but  not^ 
others.  It's  odd.  But  that's  not  what  I  wanted  to  ask 
you.  What  I  meant  was — if  somebody  had  been  silly 
— had,  we'll  say,  gone  off  with  a  man,  found  she  didn't 
care  for  him,  left  him.  .  .  .  How  would  you  feel  about 
.  .  .  about  marrying  her  ?" 

"You  alarm  me!"  cried  Edgar,  still  a  little  amused, 
but  with  a  constriction  of  the  heart.  And  then,  for  a 
moment,  it  crossed  his  mind  that  she  might  even  be  hint- 
ing at  something  which  he  dared  not  contemplate.  His 
mind  went  straight  to  Harry,  to  the  meeting.  .  .  .  He 
was  conscious  of  a  cold  sweat.  The  thing  was  so  mon- 
strous, and  the  feeling  it  aroused  in  him  so  passionate, 
that  he  did  not  understand  until  he  had  recovered  com- 
posure what  it  was  further  that  Claudia  was  saying. 


THE  SIBYL  219 

"That  tV  how  you  feel?"  Qaudia  was  persisting. 
"You  do  feel  .  .  .  well,  horror?" 

Edgar  looked  at  her.  Gradually  his  expression  light, 
ened.  Claudia's  face  was  so  earnest,  her  concern  to 
know  his  view  was  so  obviously  sincere. 

"I  couldn't  possibly  tell  you  how  I  should  feel,"  he 
answered,  smiling. 

"Would  you  marry  a  girl  who  .  .  .  well,  who  wasn't 
quite  .  .  .  wasn't  quite  fresh?" 

Forgetting  the  horror  he  had  glimpsed,  Edgar  thought 
for  an  instant. 

"It  all  depends  on  the  girl's  attitude,"  he  ventured. 
"I  think  for  me  it  would  be  a  question  of  whether  there 
was  any  confusion  in  her  mind  between  me  and  the  other 
man.  If  there  were,  I  wouldn't  marry  her." 

"You  do  admit  the  right  of  a  girl  to  freedom  of  every 
kind  of  action?" 
"In  theory." 

"Not  in  fact?"  Claudia  was  very  eager.  Edgar  an- 
swered definitely. 

"Not  in  fact.  Any  more  than  I  admit  the  same  right 
in  a  man." 

"Ah,  that's  the  point!  You  admit  the  right;  but  you 
don't  think  it  should  be  indulged.  I  quite  agree,  Edgar. 
It's  because  it  affects  other  people.  That's  ethics;  not 
conventions.  All  the  difference  in  the  world.  Thank 
you.  I've  been  thinking  about  it  a  good  deal,  and  I 
wanted  to  hear  what  you  felt.  Good  boy!" 

As  he  rose  from  the  table,  Claudia  also  rose,  and  gave 
him  that  rare  thing,  a  kiss.  For  Claudia  was  no  more 
demonstrative  of  affection  than  her  brother. 

"Sorry  to  have  been  a  bore,"  she  said  abruptly.  "I 
wanted  to  know.  It  hadn't  anything  to  do  with — with 
what  we'd  been  talking  about,  you  know." 


220  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"God  forbid!"  said  Edgar,  as  he  turned  away  from 
her  in  some  haste. 

Claudia  returned  to  Percy,  who  had  jumped  upon  her 
chair  and  was  giving  little  sniffs  at  the  odours  of  break- 
fast. She  patted  Percy's  head,  or  rather,  his  nose,  so 
that  he  scowled  at  her;  and,  after  having  lifted  Percy  to 
another  chair,  poured  herself  more  coffee.  Although 
Claudia  looked  so  young,  and  her  movements  were  still 
the  free  movements  of  youth,  she  was  rather  grave  as 
she  sat  at  the  table.  So  many  little  thoughts  and  intui- 
tions, chiefly  about  Edgar,  but  some  of  them  about  Pat- 
ricia, ran  in  her  head.  She  could  not  be  other  than 
grave. 

vi 

Edgar  went  straight  out  of  the  house  after  he  had  left 
Claudia  in  the  breakfast  room.  He  could  not  at  first 
understand  why  he  felt  so  extraordinarily  miserable  as 
he  walked  along  the  street;  but  he  awoke  to  find  his  own 
exclamation,  "God  forbid!"  dinning  in  his  ears.  What 
if  tfce  subject  Claudia  had  introduced  were  something  to 
do  with  Patricia!  His  mind  was  instantly  alight.  The 
man  distraught  by  love  will  believe  almost  anything  evil 
of  the  inscrutable  mistress — that  she  is  a  devil,  harlot, 
liar,  angel,  fool.  .  .  .  Edgar  was  not  so  extreme;  but 
he  was  filled  with  that  wild  electricity  of  emotion  which 
accompanies  the  throwing  into  a  combustible  mind  of 
any  such  suggestion.  His  day  was  spoilt  because  of 
this  one  frantic  thought.  There  was  no  pity  here  for 
Patricia;  no  understanding;  only  the  fierce  blaze  of  un- 
controllable mental  agitation.  His  heat  cooled,  of 
course;  but  the  effect  of  it  remained.  Edgar  knew  that 
those  calm  doubtings  and  considerations  of  the  night  and 
morning  were  but  the  shadows  of  his  real  doubtings. 
Of  consideration  he  had  none:  only  a  fire  that  smoul- 


THE  SIBYL  221 

dered,  and  that  looked  and  felt  like  coldness.  But  he 
did  not  dare  to  recall  the  subject  of  the  morning  talk, 
or  Claudia's  dissociation  of  it  from  the  discussion  of 
Patricia's  nature.  To  have  done  so  would  have  brought 
him  to  a  pitch  of  unmanageable  fear.  As  it  was,  the 
thought,  although  suppressed,  lay  full  of  secret  life. 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN:  ANOTHER  DAY 


WHILE  Edgar  speculated,  Patricia  suffered.  Her 
vanity  had  been  wounded  by  Harry's  silence:  the 
meeting,  which  showed  her  that  he  was  solacing  himself 
with  Rhoda,  wounded  her  vanity  yet  more.  It  was  a 
mortal  blow  to  her  sense  of  power.  Parting  might  have 
been  sweet  pain.  This  was  otherwise.  It  was  a  shudder- 
ing anguish.  Soberly  Patricia  tried  to  face  the  truth :  her 
mind  could  not  grasp  it.  She  could  not  suppose  that  the 
romance — so  sweet,  so  almost  childish — was  concluded. 
Although  her  words,  and  even  her  thoughts,  were  fre- 
quently those  of  a  woman,  her  heart  was  still  the  easily 
wounded  heart  of  a  child.  She  had  been  living  in  a 
dream;  and  nobody  would  tarry  until  her  due  awaken- 
ing. She  found  herself  in  a  discouraging  world  where 
the  grown-up  is  still  all-powerful.  Harry  was  a  man, 
fixed  in  rigid  manhood,  without  the  gift  of  indefinite 
spiritual  expansion;  and  she  had  hoped  that  he  was  still 
a  boy,  still  able  to  play,  still  able  to  postpone  his  maturity 
until  some  vaguely  contemplated  future.  Her  dream 
was  shown  to  have  been  a  folly. 

It  was  to  the  sense  of  disaster  that  Patricia  came. 
Not  yet  to  desperation. 

ii 

That  morning  it  occurred  to  her  to  look  at  her  bank- 
book. Two  manuscripts  had  been  returned  through  the 
post;  and  as  she  ate  her  breakfast  Patricia  suddenly 
recollected  that  she  had  not  had  anything  accepted  for 

222 


ANOTHER  DAY  223 

some  weeks.  A  tremor  went  through  her.  Her  eyes 
flinched.  Supposing  .  .  .  With  some  anxiety  she 
counted  the  small  amount  of  money  in  her  purse.  And 
then,  as  she  continued  to  sit  in  that  constricted  room 
with  the  low  ceiling  and  the  sun-stained  wallpaper,  the 
room  seemed  to  grow  darker.  The  oilcloth  and  rug  grew 
more  tawdry.  The  whole  of  her  surroundings  were  seen 
as  deplorable.  Patricia  had  thought  little  of  money 
lately,  for  she  had  given  all  her  attention  to  the  delight- 
ful play  that  was  in  progress ;  and  she  had  worked  with- 
out earnest  endeavour.  It  had  not  appeared  necessary, 
and  the  fancies  had  come  with  ease.  So  often  her  eyes 
had  wandered,  and  her  memories  and  anticipations  had 
become  exciting ;  and  when  that  happened  the  pen  strayed 
on  only  half -heeded,  or  remained  quite  still  upon  the 
table.  And  now,  with  this  awakening,  what  she  had 
written  seemed  to  Patricia  silly  and  babyish  and  without 
value,  with  all  the  pleasant  sportiveness  by  which  it  had 
been  inspired  wholly  evaporated.  And  she  found  that 
she  had  other  things  to  face  besides  the  loss  of  Harry. 

For  a  few  minutes  she  pretended  that  there  was  noth- 
ing to  fear,  that  there  must  lie  pounds  and  weeks  between 
the  moment  and  the  end  of  comfort.  Her  confidence 
was  staunch.  Nothing  to  fear  .  .  .  nothing  to  fear. 
.  .  .  She  was  Patricia  Quin.  Just  as  she  felt  that  she 
would  never  die,  so  Patricia  felt  that  she  would  never 
want.  It  was  true,  perhaps.  And  yet  when  her  thoughts 
tried  to  create  money  out  of  nothing  it  did  not  seem  clear 
how  she  was  to  live  .  .  .  presently  .  .  .  soon  .  .  .  very 
soon  .  .  . 

Without  preparation,  Patricia's  courage  suddenly  de- 
serted her.  She  lost  her  nerve.  She  no  longer  had  her 
dream  of  Harry:  she  was  awake:  she  was  stifling.  And 
disaster  lay  ahead.  She  wasn't  any  good.  .  .  .  She  was 
afraid. 


224.  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"I'm  afraid,"  she  whispered  to  herself,  with  bowed 
head.  "I'm  a  coward!"  It  was  for  Patricia  a  terrible 
confession.  Energy,  confidence,  egotism  as  a  rule  sus- 
tained her  in  every  shock.  Now  these  things  were  de- 
serting her  in  face  of  a  spectre.  In  vain  did  she  rally. 
It  was  true :  she  was  afraid. 


in 

With  the  expression  of  a  baby  that  is  afraid  and  is 
trying  not  to  confess  it;  with  eyes  that  seemed  to  grow 
larger  each  minute  and  a  mouth  that  was  pursed  in  fear 
that  masqueraded  as  courage,  Patricia  stood  alone  in  that 
ugly  little  room  with  the  highly  coloured  furnishings  and 
the  gilded  mirror.  She  knew  she  had  her  friends,  who 
would  welcome  her  rich  or  poor,  but  they  would  welcome 
a  happy  Patricia,  and  not  one  who  was  cowed  by  dis- 
aster. Such  a  Patricia  as  this  would  be  unfamiliar.  She 
could  never  bear  to  go  among  them  starving  or  wretched. 
Where  she  had  queened  it,  she  could  never  play  Cinder- 
ella. But  when  her  imagination  darted  ever  so  little 
forward — to  the  day  when  the  money  which  had  seemed 
such  wealth  was  exhausted, — Patricia  heard  pity,  and 
shrank  from  it.  Hers  was  the  panic  cry:  "All  is  lost!" 
She  had  been  bold ;  her  way  had  seemed  so  clear,  so  con- 
quering. In  that  minute  of  discovery  it  was  not  surpris- 
ing that  confidence  vanished.  She  was  not  one  used  to 
hardship,  to  the  canvassing  of  expedients.  All  her  life 
had  been  spent  thoughtlessly  so  far  as  provision  for  any- 
thing beyond  the  moment  was  involved.  She  had  no 
preparation  at  all  for  this  emergency.  She  had  awak- 
ened to  nightmare. 

With  nerves  shaken,  and  despair  almost  at  her  elbow, 
ready  to  plunge  into  her  heart  at  a  motion,  Patricia  tried 
to  think.  If  her  money  went,  what  prospects  were 


ANOTHER  DAY  225 

there?  Harry's  help — no!  She  could  never  appeal  to 
Harry.  That  was  a  new  thought,  and  one  which  con- 
firmed her  decision.  In  no  circumstances  whatever  could 
she  ever  have  gone  to  Harry  as  one  humiliated.  Nor 
could  she  have  married  him  except  for  love,  as  an  equal 
— as  a  superior,  the  adored,  the  shining  wonderful  of 
her  own  dreams.  Marriage  occurred  to  her — marriage 
as  a  way  out  of  want — as  it  has  occurred  many  times  to 
women; — and  it  was  only  without  true  imagination  that 
she  saw  it.  It  was  a  suggestion  made  by  her  inexperi- 
ence— the  sort  of  careless,  unrealised  notion  that  trips 
off  the  mind's  surface.  She  knew  that  at  any  time  she 
could  have  married  Jacky;  and  the  notion  almost,  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  distress,  made  her  laugh.  It  was 
absurd.  Jacky!  Jacky  as  a  husband,  a  perpetual  com- 
panion !  There  was  nobody  whom  she  could  marry.  A 
situation?  Who  would  employ  her?  Now,  when  men 
and  women  were  clamouring  for  work !  And  how,  after 
so  much  liberty,  endure  the  constraints  and  disciplines  of 
office  life !  Impossible. 

Dry-eyed  and  wretched,  Patricia  received  her  shock. 
She  was  stunned.  A  day  earlier — in  full  panoply,  de- 
liciously  happy,  self-enchanted,  inspired  with  the  great- 
est ambitions,  now  she  was  amazed  to  find  how  insub- 
stantial were  the  foundations  of  her  confidence.  In  an 
instant,  from  independence,  she  had  fallen  to  a  paralys- 
ing discovery.  Patricia  was  terrified.  The  knowledge 
that  she  was  only  a  frightened,  inexperienced  little  girl 
was  borne  in  upon  her. 


IV 

If  she  could  have  been  caught  in  that  mood  by  some- 
body capable  of  understanding  her,  who  would  have 
taken  all  her  native  silliness  at  its  true  value  as  the  ebul- 


226  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Hence  of  youth,  Patricia  might  have  been  turned  at  this 
moment  into  a  channel  leading  straight  to  growth  and 
happiness.  But  there  was  nobody  at  hand.  There  so 
rarely  is  anybody  at  hand.  She  had  friends,  but  no 
friend.  She  was  entirely  without  a  friend  to  whom  she 
could  turn  for  renewal  of  that  self -justification  which 
is  essential  to  happiness.  She  had  been  without  a  guide 
all  her  life,  and  all  the  acquaintances  of  the  last  few 
weeks  were  self -engrossed  and  pleasure-loving.  She 
had  been  so  wonderful,  and  now  she  saw  that  the  power 
upon  which  she  had  counted  did  not  exist.  She  was 
alone,  and  that  was  the  consciousness  which  for  Patricia 
lay  uppermost.  She  was  alone.  Although  she  tried 
very  hard  to  bluster,  it  was  forced  home  to  her  that  no- 
body cared  very  much  what  she  did  with  her  life.  Harry 
had  wanted  her  for  himself,  to  make  love  to,  to  play  with ; 
never  for  the  sake  of  seeing  that  she  made  the  best  of 
herself.  He  had  not  been  interested  in  her.  He  had 
not  imagined  her.  He  did  not  love  Patricia:  he  was 
merely  "in  love"  with  her,  which  meant  that  she  pro- 
vided, in  her  response,  flattery  to  his  own  self-love. 

Not  a  real  friend :  they  did  not  grow  in  this  heartless 
realm.  There  was  only  one  house  in  London  which  she 
had  felt  as  a  home ;  and  Claudia  she  hardly  knew,  while 
she  was  sure  that  Edgar  Mayne,  although  he  was  kind, 
was  inhuman.  He  could  never  understand  that  she  was 
Patricia  Quin,  the  marvellous  Patricia;  and  that  so  she 
must  remain  in  her  own  eyes  for  weeks  and  months  and 
years  to  come — she  believed,  for  ever.  When  she 
thought  of  him  it  was  of  one  whose  friendship  she  might 
value  if  only  he  would  do  what  he  could  never  do — ac- 
knowledge her  will  as  a  thing  quite  as  splendid  as  his 
own.  No  friend :  she  was  alone.  A  sob  shook  Patricia. 
The  first  hint  of  desperation  showed  in  her.  She  gave 
a  sob.  What  did  it  matter  what  she  did?  Nobody 


ANOTHER  DAY  227 

cared.  Again  that  surge  of  arrogance  swept — now  a  lit- 
tle less  strongly — over  her.  She  could  rely  upon  only 
herself ;  and  she  was  a  little  girl.  Edgar  was  grown-up. 
Harry  was  grown-up.  Amy  was  grown-up.  They  were 
all  finished:  only  Patricia  had  the  power  of  infinite 
growth.  They  could  none  of  them  understand  her.  She 
was  too  big  to  be  understood — too  big,  and  too  childishly 
helpless.  Patricia  angrily  wiped  away  two  tears  which 
had  stolen  out  on  to  her  cheeks.  The  contrast  between 
her  egotism  and  her  situation  was  insufferable.  She  felt 
reckless,  without  hope.  Who  cared  ? 


She  was  dining  that  night  with  Monty;  and  they  were 
going  on  to  dance  at  a  club.  She  supposed  it  would  be 
Topping's,  but  she  was  not  sure.  And  as  she  wiped 
away  her  tears  Patricia  felt  glad  to  be  going  out  to 
dance.  She  thought  that  for  one  evening  at  least  she 
would  be  able  to  forget  that  she  had  lost  Harry  and  that 
she  was  on  the  verge  of  poverty.  Still  with  that  ex- 
pression of  fear  and  misery  upon  her  face,  she  began  to 
wonder  about  the  dress  she  would  wear,  and  about  the 
evening,  and  about  Monty;  and  as  she  did  this  her  heart 
was  a  little  eased  at  the  distraction  of  her  thoughts,  and 
a  more  cheerful  glance  gave  freshness  to  her  appearance. 
She  might  still  be  fearful ;  but  at  any  rate  she  was — ever 
so  slightly — relieved.  Complete  disaster  was  not  yet. 

The  day  went  on,  very  slowly,  giving  Patricia  time  for 
many  changes  of  emotion  between  her  fear  and  her  arro- 
gance, for  tears  and  blustering  or  consoling  speeches  and 
recoveries;  and  by  the  evening  she  had  become  calmer. 
But  the  assertion  of  self-control  had  been  purchased. 
She  was  no  longer  normal.  The  knocking  of  a  postman 
in  the  street  below  made  her  heart  flutter,  and  her  ears 


228  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

strain.  Any  violent  noise  was  enough  to  set  her  nerves 
jangling.  With  her  mind  lost,  she  could  not  do  any- 
thing with  concentration,  but  committed  mistakes  in  spell- 
ing, wrote  words  that  made  nonsense,  spilt  water  from 
the  vase  she  had  just  re-filled,  and  almost  broke  the  vase 
itself  by  striking  it  against  the  table  in  inattentive  blind- 
ness. And  at  last  the  day  grew  dark,  and  then  it  seemed 
as  though  the  lighted  gas  tried  her  eyes,  making  them 
smart,  and  as  though  the  atmosphere  were  unaccountably 
heavy.  Out-of-doors  it  was  raw,  with  a  mist  rising. 
Within,  the  heat  was  dry  and  exhausting.  And  the  hours 
would  not  pass  quickly  enough.  They  dallied  slowly 
round  the  clock,  and  she  watched  the  seconds  hand  with 
impatience  from  quarter  to  quarter.  The  room  grew 
smaller  and  smaller,  closing  in  upon  her  until  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  as  if  to  force  the  walls  apart,  so  that  she  could 
breathe. 

vi 

The  meeting  with  Monty  was  for  seven  o'clock,  and 
the  little  restaurant  where  they  were  to  dine  was  already 
half -full  of  people  when  Patricia  arrived.  She  went 
straight  in,  and  saw  Monty  waiting  in  the  hall  of  the 
restaurant,  his  overcoat  already  discarded,  and  a  cigarette 
between  his  lips.  For  the  first  time  that  day  Patricia's 
heart  really  lightened.  Monty  was  in  evening  dress  (  for 
so  it  had  been  arranged),  and  he  always  looked  his  most 
handsome  when  dressed.  The  white  shirt  enhanced  the 
olive  darkness  of  his  skin,  and  the  beautifully  cut  coat 
made  him  look  slimmer  than  he  was.  And  there  was  a 
quality  in  Monty's  caressing  manner  which  pleased  and 
soothed  Patricia.  It  was  full  of  admiration.  Monty 
had  very  dark  and  tired  eyes,  which  seemed  never  to 
yield  their  secrets.  There  was  power  in  his  carriage. 
Everything  about  Monty,  from  his  bearing  to  his  finger 


ANOTHER  DAY  223 

tips,  suggested  luxury  and  invulnerability.  He  seemed 
always  just  to  have  left  the  hands  of  his  hairdresser  and 
the  manicurist. 

And  on  this  evening  he  was  more  than  ever  regal  and 
courteous.  His  quick  glance  was  full  of  sympathy  and 
reassurance,  as  though  he  were  saying:  "You  are  un- 
happy, but  you  look,  as  usual,  incomparably  lovely. 
You  deserve,  and  you  shall  have,  all  the  consolation,  all 
the  happiness  that  I  can  give  you;  and  it  will  make  me 
very  proud  if  you  will  let  me  entertain  you  with  all  the 
resources  of  expensiveness  and  unobtrusive  delicacy." 
Spoken,  the  words  would  have  been  odious;  conveyed, 
they  were  as  balm. 

"Come  straight  in,"  murmured  Monty,  his  hand  upon 
her  wrist.  Patricia  could  still  feel  that  he  bore  about  him 
the  aroma  of  the  Egyptian  cigarette  which  he  had  thrown 
away,  and  it  seemed  appropriate  to  him.  He  had  for 
her  the  attractiveness  of  something  exotic.  The  prox- 
imity of  that  dark  face  and  dark  head  was  agreeable; 
where  all  was  softness  and  gentle  modulation,  she,  too, 
could  not  fail  to  yield.  "How  punctual  you  always  are ! 
I've  got  a  table  there — in  the  far  corner.  It  will  be 
quieter.  And  I  ventured — you  will  excuse  me? — to 
order  the  dinner." 

With  a  checked  sigh,  Patricia  allowed  Monty  to  help 
her  with  her  coat,  so  that  her  arms  might  be  free;  and 
as  he  seated  himself  opposite  she  smiled.  She  did  not 
know  that  it  was  a  pathetic  smile  :  she  would  have  blushed 
had  she  known  it.  But  Monty's  glance  seemed  to  be 
everywhere,  although  it  was  so  seldom  anything  but  gen- 
tle and  melancholy.  He  spoke  to  the  waiter,  who  dis- 
appeared and  returned  too  quickly  to  allow  of  any  talk 
in  the  interval.  The  waiter  bore  two  small  glasses. 

"This  is  a  very  exceptional  cocktail,"  said  Monty. 
"It  will  do  you  good." 


230  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Patricia  held  out  her  hand  for  the  glass  he  extended. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  eager  for  stimulant. 
She  drank  the  cool  bitter  drink,  which  sent  a  slow  motion 
of  revived  life  through  her,  and  filled  her  eyes  and  made 
the  feeling  of  dispirited  tiredness  recede.  Monty  was 
watching  her. 

"Very  good,"  Patricia  assured  him.  She  saw  the 
black  head  inclined,  the  slow  smile  which  crossed  Monty's 
face;  and  upon  the  table  his  plump  and  beautifully 
shapely  hand  as  he  received  his  own  glass.  As  he  did 
this,  a  waiter  brought  a  shining  bucket,  containing  ice, 
held  a  bottle  for  verification,  and  drew  with  a  muffled 
pop  the  wine-cork.  Patricia  started :  Monty  was  giving 
her  champagne.  How  glad  she  was!  It  was  as  if  he 
had  known  that  she  was  miserable,  and  had  planned  to 
disperse  the  shadow.  It  was  magic. 

"You  like  the  wine  dry?"  said  Montv.  "This  is  Rui- 
nart." 

Patricia  nodded,  shyly  smiling.  How  kind  he  was! 
How  kind  and  consoling  and  suave  and  perfectly  con- 
trolled. As  if  he  had  known!  Her  heart  warmed.  Al- 
ready the  wretchedness  of  the  day  was  slipping  out  of  her 
memory.  Her  spirits  were  rising  with  each  instant.  She 
was  growing  happy. 

vii 

"You're  tired,"  suggested  Monty.  "Don't  talk. 
Keep  very  still,  and  your  headache  will  go.  Let  me  do 
the  talking.  I'm  not  so  used  to  that  as  some  of  our 
friends  are;  and  it  will  please  me  and  rest  you.  Will 
you  have  some  of  this — and  this?"  His  voice  was  so 
low,  and  its  quality  had  so  much  the  soft  smoothness 
of  velvet,  that  every  word  brought  peace.  "It  ought  to 
be  possible  for  us  all  to  leave  England  now  and  follow 
the  sun.  One  ought  now  to  be  starting  for  the  East, 


ANOTHER  DAY  231 

where  the  sun  is,  and  spending  the  days  in  winter  quar- 
ters. We  ought  to  be  going  soon  to  Tunisia  or  beyond, 
further  than  the  winter  tourists  go;  and  then  we  could 
come  back  and  explore  the  ruins  of  Carthage;  and  you 
should  learn  all  about  the  ancient  civilisations,  and  for- 
get that  this  sharp  and  strident  Europe  exists.  It's  so 
very  lovely  to  travel  back  gradually  to  the  West,  and  to 
see  Sicily,  where  the  most  beautiful  things  in  the  world 
are;  or  it  must  be  enchanting  to  go  to  India,  to  those 
places  where  Europeans  rarely  go,  and  learn  something 
about  the  Hindu  philosophy  by  going  back  for  a  dozen 
or  so  centuries  and  forgetting  that  the  world  as  we  know 
it  has  any  existence.  I've  never  been  to  India;  but  one 
day  I  shall  go,  because  the  wish  to  see  it  is  growing 
stronger  and  stronger,  and  I'm  afraid  of  dying  or  grow- 
ing old  before  I've  savoured  all  the  beauties  of  the  un- 
familiar." 

Monty  spoke  very  slowly,  and  as  if  to  cast  a  spell  upon 
her,  so  that  she  might  forget  her  tiredness  and  her  head- 
ache. Patricia  nodded.  She  thought  how  beautiful  it 
would  be  to  escape  from  all  her  present  distress,  and  to 
wander  over  the  face  of  the  earth,  where  there  was 
always  sunshine  and  happiness. 

"I  should  like,"  continued  Monty,  "to  travel  by  car  all 
over  the  world,  and  go  through  the  roads,  staying  where 
the  fancy  suggested,  and  going  on  when  I  was  tired. 
It  would  be  very  good  to  go  through  France,  and 
Northern  Italy,  and  on  to  the  East.  One's  seen  the 
familiar  beauties.  Now  is  the  time  to  try  and  see  what 
remains." 

"I  haven't  seen  even  the  familiar  beauties,"  said 
Patricia,  staring  straight  in  front  of  her.  In  imagination 
she  could  see  a  long  white  road  winding  towards  distant 
mountains.  "I've  never  been  out  of  England.  Why,  I 
still  think  that  to  go  to  France  and  Italy  and  Spain  would 


232  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

be  the  most  glorious  thing  in  the  world.  Perhaps  I  shall 
go,  one  day." 

"Nothing  could  be  easier,  I'm  sure,"  sympathised 
Monty.  "Why  not  go?" 

"Because  I  haven't  any  money,"  retorted  Patricia. 
"You  can't  go,  if  you  haven't  any  money." 

"You  should  get  somebody  to  take  you,"  ventured 
Monty.  "It  could  easily  be  arranged." 

Patricia  remained  serious :  Harry,  she  knew,  tramped 
through  Europe.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  go  with 
him.  He  would  make  everything  easy.  A  film  was 
across  her  eyes.  Meditatively,  forgetting  Monty,  she 
sipped  her  champagne,  and  felt  its  incomparable  prick- 
ing upon  her  tongue,  delicious  and  golden. 

"Yes,  it  could  easily  be  arranged,"  said  Patricia, 
drowsily.  Then  a  little  dryness  touched  her,  and  she 
looked  straight  at  Monty,  smiling.  "But  it  won't,"  she 
added. 

Monty's  glance  held  her  eyes  for  an  instant.  But 
Patricia's  eyes  were  blue  and  clear,  as  baffling  to  Monty 
in  their  purity  as  his  own  were  unreadable  to  Patricia 
by  reason  of  their  impenetrable  softness.  Something  in 
those  eyes  smouldered. 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Monty. 

viii 

Two  hours  later  they  were  at  Topping's,  and  Patricia 
was  dancing.  The  champagne  had  cleared  her  head,  but 
she  had  had  more  to  drink  than  usual,  and  her  lightness 
was  unwelcome.  As  she  left  the  room  where  she 
changed  her  shoes  and  handed  her  coat  to  an  attendant 
she  was  moved  once  more  to  thought  of  Harry  by  mem- 
ory of  her  first  visit  to  this  place.  Her  lips  seemed  to  be 
swollen  and  to  ache,  and  she  ha.d  been  made  short-sighted, 


ANOTHER  DAY  233 

and  her  lids  were  hot  and  unrefreshing  to  tired  eyes. 
But  she  was  less  unhappy,  more  pliant,  more  forgetful 
of  the  possible  disasters  of  the  future.  When  Monty 
joined  her  she  took  his  arm  naturally,  but  also  because 
she  felt  glad  of  the  safety  which  his  protection  gave  her. 
She  could  not  bear  to  be  here  alone,  to  hear  the  band  in 
the  distance,  and  to  think  of  Harry.  It  was  as  though, 
in  touching  Monty,  she  had  said :  "Take  me  anywhere 
— anywhere — so  that  I  shan't  think  of  to-morrow.  Be- 
cause I'm  frightened  of  to-morrow!" 

They  pressed  into  the  room,  through  little  bunches 
of  people  who  stood  near  the  door;  and  Patricia  heard 
the  noise  incomparably  loud  in  her  ears,  and  she  was 
dancing  with  Monty  as  if  there  were  to  be  no  to-morrow. 
The  champagne  had  robbed  her  of  the  power  to  feel: 
she  was  numbed  by  it;  but  it  had  given  her  brain  clear- 
ness and  vivacity.  When  suddenly  she  caught  sight, 
among  the  dancers  who  were  sitting  at  a  neighbouring 
table,  of  Harry  and  Rhoda,  the  shudder  which  ran 
through  her  body  was  unconcealed.  Tears  filled  her 
eyes.  Monty  could  not  have  failed  to  observe  her  emo- 
tion ;  but  his  acknowledgment  of  it  was  a  warmer  pres- 
sure of  reassurance. 

"Don't  let's  ...  go  ...  over  there,"  whispered 
Patricia.  "I  don't  want  to  go.  I  don't  .  .  .  like  them. 
I  don't  want  to  ...  talk  to  Harry  and  Rhoda.  Let's 
.  .  .  keep  on  dancing.  I  want  to." 

If  only  Monty  would  keep  her  there,  with  one  arm 
about  her,  safe  from  her  unhappiness.  ...  If  only  he 
would  protect  her  now.  .  .  . 

ix 

Patricia  was  not  to  escape  Harry ;  for  she  and  Monty 
had  presently  to  rest.  They  sat  at  one  of  the  tables,  and 


234  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Monty  ordered  some  more  to  drink,  and  gently  urged 
Patricia  to  join  him.  As  she  was  hesitating,  refusing, 
yielding,  a  voice  came  from  behind  them  which  sent  a 
tremor  through  her.  Harry  and  Rhoda  stood  there, 
laughing  like  children  who  had  stolen  unawares  upon 
sleeping  elders. 

"Hullo!"  cried  Harry.     "Hullo,  Patricia!" 

Rhoda  drew  up  a  chair  to  Patricia's  side,  and  began 
vivaciously  to  talk.  Patricia  had  a  glimpse  of  the  dead 
white  cheeks  and  red  lips  and  full  dark  eyes,  and  strug- 
gled to  carry  on  a  conversation  with  Rhoda  while  she 
was  giving  all  her  attention  to  what  was  passing  behind 
her,  between  the  two  men. 

"Saw  you  when  you  first  came  in!"  said  Rhoda. 
"What  a  pretty  dress  that  is.  This  blue  .  .  .  there 
aren't  many  complexions  that  would  stand  it.  Yours 
does,  though.  I'm  sticking  to  black  just  now.  Makes 
me  look  svelte.  I'm  getting  fat.  You've  been  dining 
with  Monty,  I  suppose.  Lucky  girl.  I  had  to  dig 
Harry  out.  He's  working  like  a  nigger.  Going 
abroad.  .  .  ." 

"I  ...  had  ...  to  ...  dig  .  .  .  Harry  .  .  .  out! 
.  .  .  He's  .  .  .  going  .  .  .  abroad!"  That  was  all 
Patricia  heard.  "He's  going  abroad  .  .  .  going  to  the 
East,  and  the  sun,  perhaps  .  .  .  tramping  in  the  sun, 
making  everything  .  .  .  easy." 

"I  wish  ...  I  were  going  .  .  .  abroad,"  stammered 
Patricia. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  jolly.  I  say,  let's  all  go!  If  you 
could  get  somebody  .  .  .  You  could  join  us  somewhere 
.  .  .  I  mean  .  .  ."  Rhoda  checked  herself.  Patricia 
shrank  back. 

"No,  no!"  she  whispered.  But  she  had  heard  the 
words  which  Rhoda  had  spoken  so  thoughtlessly.  And 
behind  her  was  Harry's  voice,  quite  quietly  saying: 


ANOTHER  DAY  235 

"Let's  change  partners  for  a  dance,  Monty.     I  ..." 

Her  hand  shot  out  uncontrollably.  A  "no"  started 
to  her  lips.  She  heard  Monty  say  with  equal  quietness, 
in  his  thick  sweet  voice: 

"By  no  means,  Harry.  I  wouldn't  deprive  you  of 
your  partner  for  the  world.  How  entirely  charming  she 
looks,  with  that  ivory  skin.  .  .  ." 

"Patricia,"  said  Harry,  at  her  side,  his  lips  to  her  ear. 
"Dance  this  once  with  me.  Dear,  I  want  you  to.  This 
once." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  something  of  the  old  insolent 
laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"What  nonsense !"  she  said,  rather  breathlessly.  "I'm 
with  Monty." 

She  was  quite  cold  to  Harry  now ;  but  she  would  have 
died  rather  than  dance  with  him. 


When  once  more  she  was  dancing,  Patricia  felt  that 
the  encounter,  the  blow,  the  opportunity,  had  caused  her 
spirits  to  mount.  And  her  gratitude  to  Monty  was  ve- 
hement. She  yielded  herself  completely  to  the  sensuous 
enjoyment  of  the  dance,  to  Monty's  immaculate  skill,  to 
the  secret  enchantment  that  bound  her.  She  could  feel 
Monty's  soft,  wine-laden  breath  upon  her  cheek,  and  the 
occasional  contact  of  his  body  with  her  own;  and  she 
'did  not  in  any  smallest  degree  shrink  from  him.  But 
the  emotion  which  she  experienced  was  tinged  with  reck- 
lessness. She  was  being  sustained  by  fierce  resistance 
to  the  shadow  of  desperation,  which  now,  as  the  evening 
neared  its  end,  grew  ever  nearer. 

"I'm  sorry.  I  ought  to  have  been  able  to  avoid  that 
encounter.  I  didn't  see  Harry  until  they  were  there," 


236  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Patricia  heard  Monty  saying  in  her  ear.  She  laughed 
back. 

"It  didn't  matter  in  the  least,"  she  said.  "It  was  fun. 
I  enjoyed  it." 

And  having  heard  herself  laugh,  she  laughed  again, 
each  moment  more  elated  by  the  wine  she  had  drunk  and 
the  blatant  noise  with  which  the  room  was  filled  to  echo- 
ing and  the  excitement  which  accompanied  the  noise  and 
gave  it  significance.  She  could  see  the  smouldering  light 
leap  again  into  Monty's  eyes,  and  she  was  thrilled  anew 
with  revived  consciousness  of  power.  It  intoxicated  her. 
That  sweeping  sense  of  invincibility  came  back  and  settled 
upon  Patricia  like  a  golden  cloud  which  had  strayed.  She 
was  extraordinarily  lovely.  The  glitter  of  her  fair  hair 
in  the  bright  light,  and  the  pure  beauty  of  her  clear  eyes, 
and  the  life  in  all  her  features,  were  enhanced  and  made 
wonderful.  Monty's  attraction  to  her  was  so  manifest 
that  she  could  not  but  respond  to  it.  The  little  darting 
spice  of  mischief  was  in  her  expression;  but  he  could 
see  that  her  nostrils  were  pinched  above  the  parted  lips, 
as  though  she  were  trying  to  restrain  the  betrayal  of  her 
inclination  towards  him.  Never  had  Patricia  shaken 
herself  so  free  from  care;  never  had  she  been  so  aware 
of  the  secret  jubilation  which  she  felt  at  being  admired. 
She  was  excitedly  happy,  but  with  a  new  feeling  that  was 
not  zest,  that  was,  instead,  a  knowledge  of  peril — even  a 
deliberate  and  wanton  encouragement  of  it. 

Patricia  chose  to  go  home  by  omnibus.  She  knew  that 
if  they  went  otherwise  Monty  must  inevitably  make  love 
to  her;  and  although  she  was  warmed  and  excited,  and 
so,  amorous,  she  was  restrained  from  abandon  by  some 
timidity,  rather  than  by  distaste  or  a  saving  caution. 
Monty's  desire  for  her  was  palpable:  Patricia  could  not 
be  unaware  of  it.  The  knowledge  was  in  her  blood,  and 
it  fired  her;  but  she  was  not  experienced  or  callous  or 


ANOTHER  DAY  237 

bold  enough  to  yield  to  her  own  importunities.  Reckless 
though  she  felt,  she  must  at  all  costs  gain  time.  She  was 
not  ready — she  was  maliciously  tantalising — she  was  in- 
spirited and  moved  and  made  tremulous  with  fierce  and 
unusual  excitement.  And  so,  to  gain  time,  Patricia  chose 
to  travel  in  the  open.  Some  colour  to  her  preference 
was  given  by  the  fact  that  the  evening  was  brilliantly  fine, 
and  Monty  remained  inscrutably  unruffled  to  the  end. 
He  was  never  more  characteristic  than  in  his  watchful 
impassivity.  But  as  they  parted  he  quickly  and  delib- 
erately put  his  arm  round  her,  as  if  it  might  have  been 
for  one  further  dance.  Patricia  did  not  protest.  She 
breathed  quickly,  her  lips  closely  compressed.  Even 
when  he  stooped  and  took  her  hand,  and  then  lingeringly 
kissed  it,  she  remained,  with  a  sort  of  excited  triumph, 
and  her  head  back,  unflinching.  She  pressed  his  hand 
gently  in  releasing  her  own,  and  stood  watching  from  the 
open  door  Monty's  retreating  figure.  He  looked  back, 
espied  her,  hesitated,  made  as  if  to  return;  and  was  only 
discouraged  by  her  swift  withdrawal.  Patricia's  eyes 
were  fixed,  and  she  entered  the  house  unseeing,  creeping 
up  the  stairs,  with  tightly  closed  mouth.  She  was  jubilant, 
cool  once  more,  exulting ;  and  there  was  for  the  first  time 
cruelty  and  baseness  in  her  triumph.  Only  when  she 
was  in  her  own  room,  and  when  she  had  set  the  candle 
down,  did  she  feel  the  blood  flooding  her  cheek  and  her 
neck  and  even  her  breast.  It  receded,  and  came  again, 
painfully,  until  her  whole  body  burned.  Patricia  was 
ashamed. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN:  CONTRAST 


PATRICIA  thought :  How  difficult  it  is  to  be  good ! 
And  it's  so  easy  to  be  wicked.  Some  people  want 
to  be  wicked,  and  can't.  It's  .  .  .  it's  easy. 

She  was  standing  in  her  little  brown  room  and  look- 
ing at  her  own  reflection  in  the  mirror  with  the  gilded 
frame.  And  as  she  looked  at  herself,  she  saw  a  hard- 
ness come,  and  a  new  glitter  in  her  eye.  And  it  was 
then  that  she  realised  how  easy  it  was  to  be  wicked,  and 
how  difficult  to  be  good.  How  easy  it  was  to  drift  into 
wickedness  that  made  one  defiant  afterwards,  and  a  little 
afraid!  That  made  one  continue  avid  of  excitement! 

Patricia  felt  that  she  could  not  keep  still.  Such  nerv- 
ous restlessness  as  she  was  now  experiencing  was  strange ; 
but  she  could  not  keep  still.  If  she  sat  down  she  found 
herself  immediately  again  standing,  moving  about  the 
room;  and  stopping,  lost  in  a  dream.  She  could  not 
think  consecutively.  If  she  began  to  think,  ridiculous 
words  came  into  her  head  from  nowhere,  and  fragments 
of  the  speech  of  somebody  else;  and  cross  currents  of 
her  own  thought  interrupted  and'distracted  her  attention. 

"I'm  going  mad!"  she  suddenly  thought.  And  from 
somewhere  came  the  comment,  "Ah,  I've  noticed  that, 
have  I?  ...  Pengewith  ...  As  if  it  could  be  helped. 
.  .  .  Monty  was  ...  of  course,  women  ...  I  wonder 
how  the  name  Saskatchewan  is  really  pronounced:  I 
suppose  it's  .  .  .  Yes,  mad.  Mad,  because  all  this  .  .  . 
I  could  go  to  Africa,  Biskra — isn't  that  where  they  go? 
Or  Samarkand  .  .  .  What  beautiful  names  they  have. 

238 


CONTRAST  239 

...  I'd  like  to  go  travelling  on  and  on,  and  the  moon 
at  night  shining  on  the  desert  .  .  .  All  very  quiet,  and 
stars,  and  peace  .  .  .  Horrible  insects  .  .  .  Stop! 
Stop!" 

Patricia  put  her  hands  to  her  ears,  as  if  in  that  way 
to  check  the  nightmare  of  her  thoughts.  She  forced  her- 
self to  sit  quietly  down,  to  take  up  a  book.  Every  noise 
in  the  house  and  street  was  subdued;  and  after  a  few 
moments  her  eyes  would  not  attend  to  the  page,  and  her 
brain  would  not  accept  the  meaning  of  the  printed  word  ; 
and  these  idiotic  thoughts  came  stealthily  back  as  little 
devils  might  have  done.  She  was  trying  hard  not  to 
think  of  something  in  particular.  She  was  trying  not  to 
think  of  what  had  happened  on  the  previous  evening,  of 
what  might  still  happen.  She  did  not  want  to  face  her 
own  actions,  or  their  consequences;  and  all  these  devil- 
ish little  thoughts  that  so  frightened  her  came  because 
she  had  as  it  were  locked  up  the  only  thing  she  wanted 
most  desperately  to  think  about,  and  was  refusing  to  let 
her  mind  have  free  play. 

ii 

In  the  afternoon  there  was  a  noise  at  the  door,  and 
Lucy  put  in  a  pink  face.  She  was  washed,  and  she 
looked  mysterious.  .A  finger  was  to  her  lips. 

"Some'dy  downstairs,"  she  whispered,  her  lips  fram- 
ing the  words.  "Miss  Roberts.  Shall  I  let  her  come 
up?" 

Patricia  welcomed  the  thought  of  a  visitor.  She 
brightened  at  once. 

"Oh,  anybody!"  she  cried,  with  a  great  breath  of  relief 
at  the  prospect  of  escape  from  her  solitude,  and  the 
gnawing  thoughts  to  which  she  was  offering  so  steadfast 
a  resistance. 


240  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Right !"  cried  Lucy,  who  had  been  secret  from  a  sense 
of  diplomacy.  Patricia,  hastily  scrambling  useless 
papers  together,  heard  Lucy  trample  down  to  the  front 
door  and  send  Amy  up;  and  so  she  went  out  on  to  the 
dark  landing  to  guide  and  exhort  her  friend.  She  was 
really  delighted  to  see  the  dim  form  which  she  knew  to 
be  that  of  Amy  rounding  the  difficult  corner  and  achiev- 
ing the  ascent.  Eagerly  she  stretched  a  hand  to  bring 
her  friend  within  the  tiny,  ugly  room. 

"How  nice!"  she  exclaimed.  "Come  in.  I'm  in  a 
muddle;  but  come  in." 

"What  stairs!"  Patricia  heard  Amy  gasp.  Then  she 
saw  the  visitor  throw  off  a  cloak  and  a  light  hat,  and  toss 
her  hair.  There  was  a  moment's  silence  as  they  scru- 
tinised each  other.  "Patricia,  I  had  to  come  and  see 
you.  You  didn't  write,  or  anything."  The  agitation 
which  Patricia  was  feeling  was  as  nothing  to  the  agitation 
which  Amy  showed.  She  looked  ghastly,  and  the  climb 
had  made  her  breathe  gaspingly.  Her  lips  looked  blue. 

"I  ought  to  have  come."  Patricia  was  filled  with  re- 
morse. 

"No.  I — felt  I  had  to  see  you  after  the  other  day. 
You  know,  the  day  you  came  to  see  me,  and  Harry  Green- 
lees  came." 

"Well !"  Patricia  gave  a  startled  exclamation.  Then 
she  sat  down  and  began  to  laugh.  .  "What  ages  ago  it 
seems !"  Really,  it  was  incredible !  She  had  almost  for- 
gotten the  studio  and  Amy's  warning  and  Harry's  ar- 
rival. So  much  had  happened  in  the  interval,  so  poig- 
nant had  been  her  emotions,  that  the  reference  made  her 
breathless.  "Well !" 

"I  heard  Harry  was  going  abroad,"  pursued  Amy, 
again  with  that  sharp  scrutiny.  "I  was  afraid  .  .  ." 

"Afraid?  Oh,  that  I  might  be  going,  too!  But  why, 
Amy?  I  should  have  thought  you  would  have  known 


CONTRAST  241 

.  .  .  Nothing  could  happen  to  me — ever — that  I 
didn't  ...  I  thought  ...  I  thought  a  girl  ought  to 
be  free  to  live  with  any  man  she  chose  ...  to  see.  ..." 

Patricia  was  half -laughing.  For  this  moment  she  was 
malicious  in  the  ridicule  of  such  singular  concern.  She 
was  immediately  to  learn  the  occasion  of  it.  Amy,  who 
sat  in  the  only  armchair  in  the  room,  which  had  been 
covered  with  horsehair,  and  super-covered  (as  it  were) 
by  a  loose  envelope  that  was  washable,  looked  disagree- 
ably back  at  Patricia  in  recognition  of  such  levity.  Her 
face,  under  the  stress  of  recent  events,  was  losing  its 
clearness,  and  was  developing  a  rough  greyness  of  colour. 
Her  eyes  protruded,  and  the  rims  of  them  were  faintly 
pink.  Amy  was  ageing  quickly.  By  thirty  she  might 
be  unsightly.  She  was  old,  and  stale,  and  without  any 
sort  of  colour  or  imagination  or  quality.  She  repelled 
Patricia,  as  a  poor  relation  might  have  repelled  a  busy 
man  in  difficulties,  or  as  a  sick  person  repels  a  healthy 
one. 

"I  know,"  she  whispered.  "I've  tried  it.  I  went 
down  to  the  country  with  Jack.  But  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
It  was  awful.  I  left  him  as  soon  as  we  got  there.  Pat- 
ricia, I  couldn't  have  stayed  there  with  him." 

Patricia  wheeled  round  at  the  incredible  announce- 
ment. She  stared  at  her  friend.  An  exclamation  burst 
from  her  lips. 

"But  Jack!"  she  cried.     "Jack!" 

Amy  misunderstood  her;  she  thought  Patricia  was 
still  in  a  state  to  harp  on  the  inconsiderateness  to 
Jack. 

"Oh,  he  doesn't  matter.     He's  quite  all  right " 

"I  was  thinking  .  .  .  Yes  ...  I  expect  he's  all 
right;  but  I  was  thinking  .  .  ."  stammered  Patricia.  She 
was  aghast.  "Why  on  earth,  if  you  were  going,  did  you 
go  with  somebody  who  bores  you?  Surely  it  was  mad- 


2*2  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

ness!  Oh,  my  dear!  .  .  .  Amy,  you  must  admit  that 
Jack  .  .  ." 

"I  know.  I  know.  He  is  idiotic.  I  don't  know  why 
I  did  it.  It  seems  ridiculous — now.  But  he  kept  on 
saying  I  ought  to  go  away;  and  it  seemed  impossible  to 
go  away  alone.  So  I  thought — well:  he's  supposed  to 
love  me.  If  I  can  bear  it,  perhaps  .  .  .  You  see,  I  was 
in  despair.  Well,  it's  no  good:  that's  all.  I've  been  in 
hell.  I  got  into  the  next  train,  leaving  him  there.  I 
simply  went  out  without  telling  him,  and  fortunately 
caught  the  only  possible  train  back.  It  was  dreadful  to 
see  the  train  coming,  and  watch  the  road  in  case  Jack 
was  coming,  too.  ...  I  felt  insane !" 

"So  I  should  think,"  said  Patricia.  "Poor  Amy!" 
She  had  not  really  any  pity  for  Amy;  but  she  did  not 
know  what  else  to  say  to  this  inglorious  tale.  If  she 
had  imagined  it,  she  would  have  shuddered  as  at  a 
squalor.  She  hesitated,  her  brain  active.  Then, 
sharply,  she  demanded:  "Have  you  seen  Jack  since?" 

Amy  nodded,  tears  in  her  eyes.  She  was  the  picture 
of  lugubriousness.  But  the  colour  was  rising  to  her 
cheeks. 

"He  says  he's  finished  with  me,"  she  pulped.  "We've 
had  a  flaming  row.  He  was  filthy!" 

"Good !"  cried  Patricia,  almost  with  vicious  emphasis. 

There  was  a  moment's  horrified  pause.  Then  Amy, 
ignoring  the  ejaculation,  continued : 

"However,  I  shall  never  be  rid  of  him.  He  isn't  the 
sort.  He'll  always  be  thinking  I'll  change,  and  be  pester- 
ing me.  He's  like  a  cur.  The  more  you  kick  him,  the 
closer  he  sticks.  I've  only  got  to  whistle.  I  loathe  him. 
Don't  let's  talk  about  Jack.  It  was  only  that  I  had  to 
tell  you !"  She  paused,  and  then,  in  a  minute,  resumed : 
"Oh,  Patricia,  I've  begun  painting  again,  you'll  be  glad 
to  hear.  I  was  a  fool  ever  to  take  any  notice  of  Felix. 


CONTRAST  243 

Of  course,  you  know  what  the  explanation  of  that  was! 
Mere  sexual  jealousy.  Men  simply  can't  bear  a  woman 
to  be  an  artist.  It  damages  their  singularity.  It  was 
all  a  part  of  the  sex  conspiracy.  I  might  have  known! 
All  this  upset  has  revived  my  ambition.  It's  done  me 
good,  in  fact.  It's  given  me  impetus.  I'm  doing  some- 
thing that's  going  to  be  really  good." 

Patricia  addressed  Amy. 

"Amy,"  she  said.  "You've  finished  with  Jack.  If 
he  hasn't  finished  with  you,  you  must  be  finished  with 
him.  For  a  man  who  will  still  stick  to  you  after  that 
must  be  an  idiot.  He  couldn't  be  any  good  to  you.  And 
if  you  are  going  back  to  painting  after  swearing  as  you 
did  that  you  had  done  with  it,  I  shall  never  understand 
you.  It  seems  preposterous.  Why,  I  can  remember — 
Amy,  you  were  absolutely  finished  with  it.  My  dear, 
what's  the  good?  As  for  sex  conspiracy — it's  laugh- 
able! I  think  you've  been  behaving  very  badly,  indeed." 

"Indeed!"  cried  Amy,  shocked  into  vituperation  by 
such  an  onslaught.  "And  what  about  yourself,  pray? 
When  it  comes  to  bad  behaviour  ?" 

It  was  unanswerable.     Patricia  flushed,  staring. 

At  this  moment,  while  the  two  of  them  were  mutually 
speechless  with  active  hostility,  Lucy,  interpreting  lib- 
erally Patricia's  welcome  to  "anybody,"  and  also  possibly 
rather  intrigued  by  the  appearance  of  the  caller,  person- 
ally ushered  into  the  room  a  second  visitor.  It  was 
Claudia.  She  had  crossed  the  landing  with  a  single  im- 
petuous step,  and  her  eagerness  brought  fresh  air  into  the 
stuffy  little  room.  Her  tallness,  her  dark  complexion, 
the  rich  crimson  of  her  astrakhan-trimmed  cloak,  were  all 
such  as  to  make  her  distinguished.  There  was  anima- 
tion in  Claudia's  face  which  showed  her  health  and  tran- 
quillity. The  quick  immature  grace  of  her  movement 
was  lovely.  She  was  free  from  all  self-consciousness. 


244  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Only  at  sight  of  Amy — stricken  by  contrast  into  abso- 
lute sickliness  of  appearance — did  she  pull  up  short. 

"Oh,"  she  gasped.     "I  didn't  know  .  .  .     Sorry!" 

"Come  in!"  Even  to  Patricia  it  was  evident  that 
Claudia's  entry  had  brought  radiance  to  the  room.  She 
hurried  across  to  greet  her.  "This  is  my  friend  Amy 
Roberts — Miss  Mayne." 

"I'll  go,"  cried  Amy,  rising  from  the  armchair. 

"No,  no.  Don't  be  silly."  "Oh,  don't  ...  I  shall 
feel  .  .  ."  There  were  two  protests.  But  Amy  was 
injured,  wounded. 

"Yes.  I've  said  all  I'd  got  to  say.  And  listened  to 
some  plain  speaking.  Very  plain.  And  I  must  get  back 
to  my  studio.  I'll  astonish  everybody  yet!  I'm  an 
artist,  Miss  Mayne,  and  I  can't  leave  my  work  for  long." 
She  fumbled  with  her  cloak. 

"But  I  shall  feel  I've  driven  you  away!"  cried  Claudia, 
with  a  puzzled  smile. 

"You  needn't."  Amy  was  brusque  in  the  effort  to  be 
dignified ;  and  as  she  flung  on  her  cloak  and  hat  she  gave 
Claudia  a  frigid  smile.  "I  was  just  going  in  any  case." 
And  with  that  she  went  to  the  door.  "Good-bye." 

"Excuse  me."  Patricia's  glance  of  reassurance  led 
Claudia  to  remain,  and,  as  the  two  others  disappeared,  to 
remove  her  own  cloak,  and  to  await  Patricia's  return. 
She  looked  quickly  round  the  shabby  room — at  the  type- 
writer, the  table-cover,  the  rug,  the  stained  wall-paper, 
and  the  glass  with  the  gilt  frame.  Then  she  went  to 
the  window  to  glance  at  the  dingy  outlook,  and  returned 
to  sniff  the  gas-fire. 

"Good  Lord!"  ejaculated  Claudia,  very  privately  to 
herself.  "The  poor  thing's  stewed  alive  in  smuts  up 
here.  It's  a  horrible  place — all  mouldy.  No  wonder 
she's  conceited!  I  should  be,  myself.  She's  a  dear! 
As  for  the  other  one — pooh!" 


CONTRAST  245 

iv 

She  had  barely  concluded  this  soliloquy  when  Patricia, 
who  had  run  up  the  stairs,  arrived  breathless,  and  closed 
the  door  with  a  rush.  She  was  completely  changed. 

"It's  lovely  of  you  to  come,"  she  cried.  "I'm  ever  so 
glad.  And  you  came  opportunely.  I  don't  know  what 
would  have  happened.  I'd  been  lecturing  Amy,  and 
she  was  excessively  cross.  She  can't  bear  the  truth — 
or  any  criticism.  She's  very  silly !" 

"She  seemed  gloomy,"  commented  Claudia,  with  some 
forbearance. 

"Oh,  she's  worse.  I  couldn't  tell  you.  .  .  .  You 
see — "  Patricia  seated  herself,  all  fire  to  communicate 
wisdom — "the  poor  thing  is  absolutely  mad  about  her- 
self. She  was  told  some  time  ago  that  she  wasn't  any 
good  as  an  artist.  I  admit  it  was  heartless,  and  I  don't 
know  who  broke  the  news.  I  didn't  tell  her  myself,  be- 
cause I  didn't  know.  I  may  as  well  admit — I  did  the 
same  to  your  brother,  as  anybody  would  have  to  do — 
that  I  tried  to  like  her  pictures.  They're  very  strange 
pictures,  and  apparently  everybody  laughs  at  them.  They 
think  she's  .  .  .  well,  no  good  at  all.  Well,  somebody 
told  her.  She  was  heart-broken.  She  saw  it.  She 
really  did  see  it.  She  was  passionate,  and  crushed;  but 
she  somehow  realised  that  she  wasn't  any  good.  That 
was  a  week  ago.  But  now  she's  all  changed.  She 
thinks  it's  a  conspiracy.  Belief  in  her  own  genius  has 
come  back — twice  it's  strength !" 

"Recoil !"  suggested  Claudia,  elated. 

"Something  like  that.  And  she's  been  behaving  atro- 
ciously— to  a  poor  man  who  loves  her.  I  admit  that 
he's  an  idiot;  but  still — even  idiots  have  their  rights, 
you'd  think !  He  isn't  a  lunatic.  I  don't  mean  that  he's 
really  mad — only  in  relation  to  Amy.  And  it's  bad  for 


246  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

her.  It  makes  her  feel  a  sort  of  horrible  empty  power — 
that  he's  always  there  if  she  needs  him.  He's  just  a 
dog-like  creature,  filled  with  devotion.  I  like  him.  He's 
too  good  for  her.  But  he's  perfectly  idiotic  about  Amy." 

"I  couldn't  fall  in  love  with  that  girl,"  said  Claudia 
distinctly.  "I  could  try  to  like  her;  because  she's  your 
friend.  No  more.  I  think  she's  probably  an  egoist;  and 
egoism's  a  bother." 

Patricia  was  pulled  up  at  this  comment. 

"There's  a  lot  of  good  in  her,"  she  apologetically  ex- 
plained. "I  oughtn't  to  talk  unkindly  about  her.  And 
I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  an  egoist  myself." 

"The  first  thing  you've  got  to  do — if  you'll  try  hard  to 
forgive  me  for  saying  such  an  awful  impertinence — is 
to  move  out  of  these  rooms,"  said  Claudia,  with  super- 
ficial irrelevance. 

Again  Patricia  received  a  shock.  But  she  recovered 
and  smiled. 

"I  can't,"  she  answered.  "They're  cheap."  Then 
her  tone  became  more  sober.  "I've  got  no  money  at  all. 
In  fact  ..."  Her  lips  quivered. 

"You  couldn't  have  any  money  in  these  rooms,"  said 
that  distinct  voice.  "Move  out  of  them.  We'll  get  you 
some  money."  Claudia  spoke  with  assurance.  Patri- 
cia was  dazzled. 

"But  how  ?"  she  asked.     "I'm  desperate  for  it." 

"We'll  ask  Edgar." 

"I  couldn't.  I  think  ...  I  think  ...  It  seems  ab- 
surd ;  but  I  think  perhaps  I'm  just  a  little  afraid  of  him." 

Claudia  surveyed  her  newest  friend  with  astonishment 
and  approval.  Her  emotion  seemed  to  be  almost  one  of 
hopeful  relief,  which  surprised  Patricia  a  good  deal. 
Claudia  proceeded. 

"Oh,  that's  awfully  good !"  she  cried.  "I'm  not  afraid 
of  him;  but  I  think  it's  nice  of  you  to  be.  I'm  pleased 


CONTRAST  247 

at  that.  However,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  him;  be- 
cause .  .  .  Well,  what  I  really  came  for  is  to  beg  you 
to  come  home  with  me  for  dinner.  Could  you  ?  Mother 
and  father  are  having  their  annual  wayzgoose,  or  beano. 
It's  the  anniversary  of  their  wedding.  So  Edgar  and  I 
are  dining  alone.  You  needn't  change  your  dress.  I 
shan't.  Will  you  come?  Do!" 


The  two  girls  had  tea  together  at  a  cafe,  and  then 
walked  to  the  Maynes'  house,  arriving  there  before  six 
o'clock.  Claudia  then  hastily  telephoned  to  Edgar,  leav- 
ing Patricia  for  the  necessary  few  moments  to  the  enter- 
tainment of  Percy  and  Pulcinella.  Patricia  was  once 
again  in  that  delicately  cordial  room  of  blue  and  blue- 
grey;  and  the  size  of  the  room  as  well  as  the  purity  of 
its  simple  comfort  was  a  solace  to  her.  There  were  very 
few  pictures  in  the  room,  and  of  these  the  largest  was  a 
strong  and  beautiful  landscape  by  a  modern  artist,  C.  J. 
Holmes,  which  gave  Patricia  delight.  All  else  was  un- 
affected and  apparently  unstudied.  A  bright  fire  burned 
within  the  noble  grate;  and  a  big  old  clock  ticked  hol- 
lowly, reminding  her  of  the  clock  in  a  half -forgotten 
poem,  which  said  "Ever — Never — Never — Forever." 
.  .  .  The  room  was  quite  silent  except  for  this  ticking 
and  the  occasional  whispering  collapses  of  fragments  of 
coal.  There  was  an  extraordinary  peace  in  this  house, 
and  a  sense  of  open  space  in  the  sitting-room  which  was 
enhanced  by  the  cool  tones  of  the  furnishings.  Patricia 
sighed  as  she  sat  there  alone.  The  little  dog,  Pulcin- 
ella, a  glossy  black  twisting  creature,  was  exuberant  and 
friendly.  Patricia  could  almost  have  believed  that  he 
recognised  her.  Percy  was  more  distant.  He  stared 
with  big  steady  eyes.  But  at  last  he,  too,  rising  from 


248  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

his  place,  stretched  and  yawned,  and  came  slowly  across 
to  her  side.  Here,  instead  of  making  any  advance,  he 
merely  sat  with  his  feathery  tail  straight  behind  him  on 
the  floor,  while  he  contemplated  the  stranger  in  silence. 

"Percy,"  said  Patricia.     "You're  awfully  proud." 

He  looked  at  her  relentingly.  Patricia  slipped  to  her 
knees  beside  him,  and  the  little  dog  came  frisking  there 
also.  Percy  turned  a  solemn  head,  in  order  to  watch 
the  gambollings  of  Pulcinella,  and  again  yawned.  His 
dignified  coquetry  was  engaging.  Then  he  rubbed  his 
head  against  Patricia's  sleeve. 

"I  wish  I  had  as  little  care  as  you,"  she  whispered. 
And  as  she  sat  there  her  face  grew  white.  She  sprang 
up,  transformed  from  white  to  red.  Memory  of  the  un- 
known creature  she  had  been  on  the  previous  night  came 
destructively  to  her  mind.  Her  face  hardened.  "I 
oughtn't  to  be  here !"  Patricia  thought,  as  the  conflict  be- 
tween her  memory  and  this  pervading  tranquillity  sank 
into  her  mind.  "I'm  wicked.  I  want  to  be  wicked! 
Claudia — why,  Claudia  wouldn't  want  to  be  my  friend 
at  all  if  she  knew  all  I  think  and  do  and  want  to  do. 
I'm  an  impostor.  I'm  not  nice  at  all.  I'm  wicked."  A 
great- stab  of  misery  held  her  silent,  still  scarlet.  She 
even  took  pleasure  in  hurting  herself,  in  thinking  that 
she  was  wicked. 

While  Patricia  was  yet  stricken  with  the  enormity  of 
her  own  guilty  inclination,  Claudia  came  back  into  the 
room,  and  stood  with  that  air  of  affection  that  made  Pat- 
ricia soft  towards  her  new  and  guileless  and  altogether 
innocent  friend.  Claudia  pulled  a  chair  up  to  the  fire,  and 
pointed  to  it. 

"That  boy  will  be  here  in  no  time,"  she  gaily  said. 

"Boy?  Oh,  how  strange  to  .  .  ."  Patricia  checked 
herself.  Almost  vaguely,  she  went  on :  "I  hope  he's  not 
coming  .  .  .  leaving  his  work." 


CONTRAST  249 

"It'll  do  him  good!"  cried  Claudia,  unexpectedly. 
"What  he  wants  is  ...  No,  Percy,  you  mustn't  claw!" 
This  last  was  because  Percy  was  resenting  Patricia's  neg- 
lect and  seeking  to  re-establish  their  relations.  "What 
Edgar  wants  is  something  to  save  him  from  work  alto- 
gether. Work's  a  great  monster." 

"I  hate  it !"  acknowledged  Patricia.  "It's  devil- 
begotten  !" 

"Edgar's  work  has  made  happiness  for  everybody  in 
this  house.  Without  it,  we  should  be  nowhere.  We 
shouldn't  exist.  But  Edgar's  the  one  who  gets  least 
out  of  his  work.  We're  all  Old  Men  of  the  Sea  on  his 
shoulders.  I've  never  thought  of  that  before,  by  the 
way.  I  suppose  you  didn't  happen  to  think  of  it,  by  any 
chance,  and  put  it  into  my  head?" 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Patricia  naively.  "You  see,  I  don't 
.  .  .  don't  know  Edgar  very  well." 

Claudia  gave  her  a  quick  side-long  glance. 

"He  knows  you  pretty  well,  doesn't  he?"  she  answered. 
"But  of  course  that's  different." 

That  was  the  third  shock  Patricia  had  received  that 
afternoon  from  Claudia.  She  turned  as  if  to  answer; 
but  Claudia  was  moving  across  the  room,  and  Patricia 
was  left  to  draw  her  own  inference.  The  remark  had 
almost  seemed  to  accuse  her  of  injustice  to  Edgar.  And 
what  beyond? 

vi 

They  had  dined,  and  were  back  again  in  the  tranquil 
sitting-room,  all  cosily  round  the  fire,  with  the  lights  soft 
and  the  fire  an  enormous  red  glow.  Patricia  was  very 
subdued.  She  was  happy  and  unhappy  at  the  same  time. 
The  contrast  of  this  evening,  and  this  quiet  fireside,  with 
the  previous  evening's  hot  and  tempting  excitement,  was 
impressive;  it  shook  her.  She  knew  that  this  was  in 


250  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

some  way  better  than  the  other;  she  felt  herself  yielding 
to  it  upon  the  one  hand  as  she  had  done  upon  the  other  to 
passion;  and  as  she  knew  and  remembered,  she  became 
confusedly  restless.  She  wondered  if  the  Maynes  al- 
ways spent  their  evenings  quietly,  and  in  such  blessed 
and  unendurable  tranquillity. 

"I  couldn't  bear  to,"  she  thought,  with  the  tears  start- 
ing into  her  eyes.  "I'm  wicked.  I  must  have  excite- 
ment. I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  should  scream,  and  make 
a  dash — like  Amy  running  for  the  train !" 

But  as  if  Claudia  had  guessed  what  were  Patricia's 
thoughts,  she  said : 

"This  is  the  first  evening  Edgar  and  I  have  both  been 
at  home  for  about  six  weeks — seven  weeks — except  that 
night  when  you  came  to  dinner."  Patricia  sighed  wear- 
ily, her  eyes  closing  in  despair  at  the  sense  of  guilt  which 
oppressed  her.  There  was  a  moment's  silence.  In  the 
middle  of  it,  Claudia  rose.  "Oh,  by  the  way,  Edgar. 
Patricia's  hard  up.  She  wants  to  ask  your  advice.  I 
promised  you'd  help  her." 

"No,  no.  I  don't  .  .  ."  began  Patricia,  and  looked 
round  for  support.  But  Claudia  was  no  longer  in  the 
room.  The  door  was  closed.  She  was  alone  with  Ed- 
gar, as  one  imprisoned;  and  everything  Edgar  stood  for 
in  her  mind  was  hostile  to  passion  and  folly  and  hot- 
mouthed  temptation. 

She  could  not  bring  herself  to  meet  his  glance.  She 
could  look  no  higher  than  the  shoulders  of  his  dark  grey 
tweed  suit.  His  small  and  well-shaped  feet  were  op- 
posite her  own.  He  lay  back  in  a  chair  which  was  the 
counterpart  of  the  one  in  which  Patricia  sat.  Edgar,  the 
maker  of  this  home,  who  breathed  restraint  and  clear 
understanding  and  ridicule  of  emotional  recklessness. 
She  was  ashamed  and  tongue-tied.  But  one  grey  tweed 
suit  is  very  like  another,  and  when  Edgar  spoke  she 


CONTRAST  251 

could  not  help  quickly  glancing  up,  with  resentment  of 
his  unsusceptibility  to  the  charm  which  she  knew  herself 
to  be  capable  of  exercising.  He  was  very  brown,  and 
his  brown  eyes  were  very  honest,  and  his  lips  were  very 
clearly  and  pleasantly  moulded,  as  though  he  smiled 
easily.  He  was  smiling  now. 

"I  expect  you'd  better,  hadn't  you?"  he  asked,  with 
perfect  gravity  and  good-humour. 

There  came  into  Patricia's  heart  a  trust  which  was 
rare,  and  an  irresistible  call  to  candour.  It  annihilated 
her  resentment,  her  hostile  clinging  to  the  memory  of 
Monty  and  the  fever  in  her  blood  which  he  represented. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  ask  your  advice,"  she  said,  looking 
straight  at  Edgar.  "You  couldn't  advise  me.  You 
couldn't  understand  how  I'm  placed." 

"Of  course  I  couldn't,"  agreed  Edgar.  "Unless  you'd 
tell  me.  Of  course,  you  could  do  that." 

"Are  you  laughing  at  me?"  demanded  Patricia,  with 
sharp  anger.  Then,  the  question  unsolved,  she  went  on. 
"It's  quite  true.  I'm  coming  to  the  end  of  my  money; 
and  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  I'm  not  making  any  money 
just  now :  only  spending  it.  And  I  ought  to  work." 

"What  sort  of  work?"  asked  Edgar.  "What  can  you 
do?" 

The  colour  filled  Patricia's  cheeks.  She  was  again 
ashamed  before  him,  with  the  same  feeling  of  shackled 
personality. 

"I'm  afraid,  nothing,"  she  said,  speaking  at  first  with 
a  sort  of  dry  impertinence,  and  afterwards  with  rather 
wistful  humility.  "Nothing  that  you  would  regard  as 
anything.  I've  been  writing.  I  want  to  write.  I  think 
I've  got  talent.  But  .  .  .  I'm  only  a  beginner.  You 
see,  I  was  in  an  office  during  the  War ;  and  I  had  a  little 
money  when  my  uncle  died;  and  I've  sold  a  few  of  the 
things  I've  written." 


252  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"What  d'you  mean  by  nothing  that  I  should  regard  as 
anything?"  inquired  Edgar.  Patricia  remained  silent, 
the  colour  slowly  rising,  and  her  heart  frozen.  She  could 
not  withstand  his  personality,  but  she  was  fighting  against 
its  approach  to  herself.  "You  want  to  keep  on  the  life 
of  a  woman  of  leisure!"  he  proceeded,  smiling  again. 
He  changed  his  attitude,  sitting  more  upright  in  his  chair. 
"It's  awfully  hard  to  go  back  to  drudgery." 

Patricia's  heart  leapt — at  the  thought,  and  at  his  af- 
fectionate kindness. 

"I  simply  couldn't,"  she  cried  breathlessly. 

"I'm  sure  you  could.  You  could  do  anything  you 
chose."  There  came  from  those  steady  eyes  a  look  that 
was  full  of  encouragement,  of  sympathy.  To  Edgar 
there  was  no  question.  He  trusted  her.  It  was  he  who 
evoked  her  quality.  Patricia  found  herself  agitated  in 
self -abhorrence. 

"O-oh!"  she  cried,  in  pain.  "If  you  knew  .  .  ."  The 
painful  colour  again  flooded  her  cheeks. 

"Suppose  you  tell  me,"  begged  Edgar. 

"No."  Patricia  stared  into  the  fire,  her  hands  clasped 
upon  the  arm  of  her  chair.  She  was  driven  to  defiance 
that  shocked  herself.  "I  couldn't.  And  you  couldn't 
understand.  There  are  all  sorts  of  things  in  my  nature 
that  you  couldn't  understand.  You  .  .  .  you've  got  a 
cold  will.  You  don't  shrink  and  waver.  You're  not 
impulsive  and  .  .  ." 

Edgar  rose  from  his  chair,  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
He  stood  looking  away  from  Patricia,  as  if  in  deep 
thought.  At  last  he  said  : 

"Do  you  resent  my  will,  that  you  call  it  cold?  Why 
should  you  do  that?  It's  unjust.  I've  no  wish  but  to 
help  you.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  haven't  a  cold  will. 
I'm  obstinate;  and  I  shrink  and  waver.  But  I  don't 
shrink  and  waver  once  I've  made  up  my  mind.  I  made 


CONTRAST  253 

up  my  mind  some  time  ago  that  I  loved  you  and  wanted 
to  marry  you,  and  to  help  you;  and  so  there's  no  more 
hesitation  about  that." 

Patricia  was  astounded.  She  turned  sharply,  her  lips 
parted  in  amazement.  He  was  in  earnest.  His  words 
made  her  heart  race.  Then  anger  came — and  again 
shame — and  an  emotion  which  she  did  not  analyse. 

"Marry?  When  .  .  .  Don't  be  ridiculous!"  cried 
Patricia. 

Edgar  looked  down  at  her,  apparently  as  grave  and 
unmoved  as  before,  although  his  voice  was  changed. 

"'Why  not  ?"  he  asked.  "I'm  in  love  with  you.  Will 
you  marry  me?" 

Patricia  laughed,  almost  savagely.  She  was  deeply 
moved,  and  her  present  emotion,  in  conflict  with  all  she 
had  been  feeling  so  recently,  made  her  voice  loud  and 
angry,  as  if  she  were  afraid. 

"Love  me  ...  I  don't  feel  that  you  love  me,"  she 
said  with  bitterness.  "Something  quite  different.  I 
feel  that  you're  interested  in  me " 

"Well,  I  should  hope  so!"  cried  Edgar,  apparently 
amazed.  "Isn't  that  essential?" 

"And  I  don't  love  you,"  said  Patricia,  vehemently.  "I 
don't!"  She  was  still  emphatically  protesting.  "I  re- 
spect you.  I  think  you're  ...  I  think  you're  every- 
thing that's  kind  and  .  .  .  inhuman."  She  was  trying 
to  remain  calm,  to  equal  his  restraint  with  her  own ;  and 
she  was  failing.  The  failure  gave  her  a  passionate  sense 
of  inferiority  to  him  that  was  intolerable.  Suddenly 
she  began  to  cry,  her  hands  outstretched  helplessly  be- 
fore her.  "It's  no  good  .  .  .  It's  no  good!"  she  sobbed 
through  her  tears,  her  little  face  distorted  with  the  tor- 
ment of  her  heart.  "I'm  ...  an  awful  .  .  .  beast!" 

Edgar  took  the  outstretched  hands  in  his  own,  dropping 
to  one  knee  in  order  to  do  so.  He  was  so  gentle,  so  ex- 


254  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

traordinarily  inviting  of  trust  and  sincerity  and  goodness, 
that  Patricia's  head  came  forward  for  the  merest  in- 
stant, and  touched  his  shoulder,  as  if  there  to  find  relief 
from  her  own  suffering. 

"Do  think  of  it,"  he  urged,  his  face  so  near  her  own, 
so  comprehending,  so  full  of  love.  "Patricia  .  .  ." 

She  rose  in  anguish,  beating  her  hands  together. 

"You  think  it's  so  simple.  You  think  it's  a  question 
of  talking  and  persuading.  You  don't  know  what  love 
is,"  she  said,  in  this  violent,  strangled  voice.  And  then, 
as  if  indignantly,  she  added:  "Nor  do  I!  Nor  do  I! 
I  couldn't.  I  don't  know  how  to  love.  I'm  too  much 
of  a  beast.  I'm  too  selfish  and  ugly-hearted!  And  if 
you  knew  anything  about  my  nature  you  wouldn't  want 
to  love  me.  You'd  hate  me."  And  with  that  she  began 
to  dry  her  eyes,  staring  away  from  him,  and  trembling. 

"You're  so  silly  to  talk  of  being  wicked,"  Edgar  said. 
"How  are  you  wicked?"  A  very  faint  tinge  of  humour 
came  into  his  voice  at  her  persistent  remorse.  "What's 
your  particular  form  of  wickedness  ?  Don't  be  so  vague, 
my  dear.  You'd  enjoy  it  more  if  you  were  thoroughly 
wicked.  Let  me  help  you  not  to  be  wicked!" 

Patricia  made  no  answer.  When  he  repeated  her 
name  she  ignored  him.  In  a  minute,  as  if  she  were  try- 
ing to  be  conversational,  she  went  on,  still  in  a  dreary, 
hopeless  tone: 

"Isn't  it  funny.  I've  been  coming  across  ...  all 
sorts  of  people's  ideas  of  love  .  .  .  lately — both  girls  and 
men ; — and  they're  all  of  them  different.  They're  none  of 
them  .  .  .  mine.  And  I  must  have  my  way  of  love!" 

Edgar  was  also  upon  his  feet,  facing  her. 

"What  is  your  way  of  love  ?"  he  asked.  "It's  my  way, 
too.  The  others  aren't  love.  They're  phantasms." 
But  Patricia  would  not  speak.  Only  a  little  tearful  smile, 
as  at  some  baffling  secret  knowledge  which  he  could  never 


CONTRAST  255 

share,  played  upon  her  lips  and  in  her  eyes.  The  smile, 
as  well  as  her  silence,  provoked  his  complaint.  "There's 
a  sort  of  sublime  cheek  about  you,"  said  Edgar,  wonder- 
ingly,  "that  isn't  likely  to  be  equalled.  I  asked  you  to 
marry  me.  You  ramble  on  about  other  people's  ideas  of 
love.  The  ideas  of  other  people  don't  interest  me." 

"Exactly !"  cried  Patricia,  thrown  back  into  anger  and 
shame  and  resistance.  "That's  exactly  why  nobody 
could  ever  possibly  love  you.  You're  only  interested  in 
your  own  ideas." 

"They're  not  enough,  my  dear.     I  want  your  love." 

"I  could  never  love  you,"  said  Patricia,  trying  to  speak 
coolly,  and  remaining  unconvincing  in  her  childish  em- 
phasis. "I  could  never  love  anybody  so  ...  so  bitterly 
inhuman !" 

"Well,  won't  you  try?"  he  urged,  puzzled  at  her  quar- 
relsomeness and  unable  to  reconcile  it  with  the  indiffer- 
ence he  had  feared.  "You  like  me,  don't  you?" 

Patricia  shook  her  head,  unexpectedly. 

"No!"  she  cried.  "I  don't  like  you.  I  hate  you.  I 
shall  always  hate  you.  You  make  me  feel  such  a  cad !" 

And  with  that  she  left  him,  going  in  search  of  Claudia. 
Edgar,  his  heart  beating,  and  his  temper  ruffled,  remained 
standing  as  he  had  stood  during  the  latter  part  of  their 
interview.  He  did  not  see  her  again  that  night.  She 
had  left  the  house  by  the  time  Claudia  returned  to  the 
room,  and  brother  and  sister  averted  their  eyes  from  each 
other  at  their  first  encounter. 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN:  PLAYING  WITH  FIRE 


PATRICIA  made  some  important  discoveries  about 
herself  within  the  next  twelve  hours.  She  was  sleep- 
less, and  her  brain  was  active.  She  found  that  all  love- 
stories  were  entirely  wrong,  that  they  were  too  simple 
and  too  prudish.  They  did  not  represent  her  own  feel- 
ings at  all.  And  the  more  she  tried  to  discover  what 
her  own  feelings  were,  the  more  bewildered  she  became. 
Like  so  many  other  matters  connected  with  herself,  as  to 
which  she  had  no  standards  of  comparison,  her  feelings 
seemed  to  Patricia  to  be  unique.  She  was  both  ashamed 
and  exultant  at  this. 

At  first  she  was  too  frantically  troubled  at  the  position 
in  which  she  found  herself  to  be  anything  but  exclama- 
tory. Within  an  amazingly  short  time  she  had  allowed 
three  men  to  make  love  to  her,  if  with  certain  restrictions ; 
and  her  sense  of  purity  was  horrified  at  this.  There  im- 
mediately followed,  by  reaction,  some  vehement  attempts 
to  justify  her  own  conduct.  But  when  she  had  been 
hysterical  for  a  little  while  Patricia  became  calmer.  The 
calm  was  even  more  false  than  the  hysteria.  It  was  in 
fact  a  feature  of  advanced  hysteria.  She  was  not  equal 
to  the  strain  which  the  events  of  the  last  few  days  had 
created. 

"I  don't  love  any  of  them,"  she  said.  "I'm  too  selfish 
— too  wicked.  I  don't  deserve  to  be  loved.  And  I'm 
not  loved,  either.  I  wanted  Harry  to  adore  me.  He 
couldn't!  I  want  Monty  ...  he  fascinates  me.  He 
excites  me.  I  like  it,  and  hate  myself  for  liking  it. 

256 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  257 

He's  passionate;  he's  sensual.  And  I'm  passionate;  I'm 
sensual.  It's  the  wicked  side  of  me  coming  out.  And 
I  only  want  Edgar  to  respect  me.  Respect !"  She  gave 
a  hollow  little  mocking  laugh.  "He  doesn't  know  me. 
He  doesn't  care  for  me.  He  couldn't  adore  me,  because 
he  despises  me.  He  couldn't  be  passionate  about  me,  be- 
cause he's  too  cold.  He's  cold,  I  tell  you.  He  doesn't 
know  what  it  is  to  want  somebody  fiercely.  I've  got  no 
power  over  him  at  all.  And  I  must  have  power!  I 
must!" 

11 

Her  mind  went  creeping  back  to  Edgar,  with  a  sort  of 
raging  contempt. 

"He  think's  love's  an  endless  conversation.    He  thinks 

it's  like  paying  another  person's  daily  cheque  into  your 

i   own  account,  and  being  able  to  draw  cheques  to  the  same 

1  amount.     It's  a  transaction.     It  isn't.     There's  no  ro- 

\  mance  in  him.     He's  business.     He'd  engage  me  as  a 

\  wife  as  he'd  engage  a  secretary.     'Good  post.'     A  con- 

\siderate   employer!     Everything   in   the   day's   round — 

breakfast,  love,  business  ...  I  hate  him !     I  could  never 

move  his  judgment.     He'd  be  kind;  but  he'd  never  really  x 

give  in  to  me.     Besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  just  a  part 

of  a  man's  life.     I  wouldn't.     I  must  be  the  whole  of  it. 

I'm  too  big  to  be  a  part  of  anything.     The  man  I  marry 

must  adore  me.  .  .  . 

"It's  strange.  I  could — I  couldn't  ever  feel  any  shy- 
ness or  pride  with  Edgar.  I  could  tell  him  anything  that 
came  into  my  head.  .  .  .  No,  I  couldn't.  He's  intelli- 
gent; but  he's  amused  at  me.  He  doesn't  take  me  seri- 
ously. That's  his  limitation.  He  thinks  I'm  a  funny 
little  insect.  If  I  told  him  I  was  wonderful,  he'd  say, 
'In  what  way?'  Fancy  trying  to  live  with  a  man  who 
asks  what  your  ideas  of  love  are !  No,  he  wouldn't  .  .  . 


258  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

He'd  say,  quite  calmly :  'Yes,  I  suppose  you  are.  We 
all  are,  in  our  way.'  He  does  everything  with  his  head. 
He  hasn't  got  a  heart!  He'd  think  me  silly  and  vain 
and  .  .  . 

"Of  course,  if  I  was  worn  out — a  poor,  broken  dis- 
pirited girl  who  just  wanted  a  home,  and  food,  and  if  I 
fitted  in  with  his  work,  then  it  would  be  different.  I'm 
not!  I'm  young!  I  want  love  and  life,  and  other  young 
people  .  .  .  and  admiration.  I  want  power.  And  I 
want  to  be  loved  for  my  beauty  ...  as  Monty  loves  me. 
I  want  to  be  desired,  as  Monty  desires  me.  Edgar 
couldn't  feel  for  me  in  that  way  .  .  .  He  only  cares  for 
himself.  .  .  .  For  me,  perhaps,  in  a  funny  way.  But 
only  as  something  secondary  to  himself. 

"I  could  go  on  living  with  Edgar  all  my  life.  .  .  . 

"I  couldn't  live  with  him  at  all.  I  could  have  lived 
with  Harry,  because  .  .  .  Harry's  stupid.  He's  obtuse. 
But  he's  charming.  Edgar's  not  charming.  He  doesn't 
want  to  be.  He  could  be,  if  he  wanted  to  be.  He  only 
wants  to  be  quite  honest,  quite  fair  .  .  .  My  God! 
;'  Fancy  wanting  to  be  quite  fair  in  love ! 

"Why  is  it  that  I  attract  these  men?"  She  laughed 
again,  murmuring.  She  was  diverted  at  her  own  scorn 
of  her  three  lovers.  Had  life  nothing  better  to  offer  her 
than  a  choice  between  charm  and  desire  and  cool  affec- 
tion? It  seemed  not.  And  yet  on  the  whole,  they  were 
personable.  Harry  and  Monty  were  handsome.  Edgar, 
if  not  handsome,  was  not  fantastically  ill-looking.  He 
had  a  good  plain  clean-cut  face,  and  his  hair  and  eyes 
and  teeth  were  good.  Oh,  she  admitted  that!  But  she 
was  thinking  of  them,  not  as  men  whom  one  might 
notice  or  fail  to  notice  in  the  street,  but  as  possible  hus- 
bands. .  .  . 

Not  only  as  husbands;  but  as  husbands  for  Patricia 
Ouin ! 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  259 

iii 

These  thoughts  represented  her  arrogance.  There 
remained  her  modesty.  It  did  not  apply  in  the  case 
of  Harry,  because  Harry  lay,  as  it  were,  in  the  past. 
And  he  had  not  wanted  to  marry  her.  Did  Monty? 
Patricia's  thought  of  that  was  a  wild  blur.  But  the 
secret  of  her  feeling  of  resentment  towards  Edgar  sud- 
denly emerged  once  more  in  the  modest  mood  which  now 
came.  She  had  been  able  to  charm  Harry:  she  both  at- 
tracted and  excited  Monty :  she  did  not  know  what  could 
attract  Edgar  to  herself,  since  she  felt  she  did  not  charm 
him  at  all.  How  charm  the  basilisk?  If  she  tried  to 
charm  him  he  would  think  her  farouche. 

"He  likes  the  truth.  He'd  soon  find  out  that  there's 
nothing  in  me  at  all.  I'm  only  a  shallow,  pleasure-loving 
girl,  who's  caught  his  eye  because  she's  pretty  and  young. 
That's  nothing.  Fifty  thousand  girls  would  do  as  much. 
He'd  find  me  out.  There's  nothing  in  me.  There's  only 
vanity  and  .  .  .  and  wickedness.  He  wouldn't  like 
that.  He'd  be  displeased  with  me  for  not  being  wise 
and  good  .  .  .  and  sensible.  .  .  . 

"He's  kind.     I  trust  him.  .  .  . 

"What  on  earth  am  I  talking  like  this  for?  Anybody 
would  think  I  wanted  to  persuade  myself  to  marry  him. 
I  aon't.  I  don't  love  him;  and  never  could  love  him; 
and  I'll  never  marry  him.  He'd  bore  me.  Besides,  it's 
ridiculous.  It's  not  as  though  I'd  asked  him  to  want  me. 
I'm  not  a  beggar — yet.  And  he  doesn't  really  want  to 
marry  me  at  all.  He  couldn't  care  for  me. 

"I'm  inferior  to  him.  I  have  thoughts  and  feelings 
he  wouldn't  like.  I'm  full  of  ugliness  and  selfishness  and 
wickedness. 

"I'm  no  good.  I'm  no  good  to  anybody.  I'm  hor- 
rible. 


260  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Not  really  quite  horrible.  I'm  only  a  ...  you  see, 
I'm  ...  I  am  nice.  I  am  good! 

"No,  I'm  no  good.  I'm  no  good  to  anybody.  ..." 
There  was  a  long  tormented  pause.  Very  low,  with  a 
sudden  flush  of  blood  to  the  cheeks,  in  an  almost  vicious 
despair : 

"Except  Monty.  .  .  ." 

iv 

There  was  a  letter  from  Monty  lying  beside  her  plate 
upon  the  breakfast-table.  It  said : 

"Dear  Patricia:  Come  to  dinner — here — to-morrow 
night  ('To-night'  when  you  get  this).  We'll  dine  and 
talk,  and  perhaps  go  and  dance  somewhere.  Monty." 

"Here"  was  his  own  house  in  South  Hampstead.  Pat- 
ricia read  the  note  as  a  command,  and  her  brows  were 
raised.  Then  she  re-read  it  as  an  appeal.  Her  heart 
began  to  beat  a  little  faster.  For  the  first  time  she  was 
repelled  by  the  warning  sense  of  danger.  It  was  in  a 
mood  entirely  reckless  that  she  threw  the  letter  aside, 
determined  to  go.  The  hardness  was  again  in  her  eyes. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  snapped  her  fingers  at  Edgar; 
but  her  heart  was  heavy,  and  the  curve  of  her  lips  was 
that  of  shame  and  defiance. 


Monty  sat  in  the  studio  waiting  for  his  visitor.  Those 
hangings  which  had  supplied  such  barbaric  decoration 
upon  the  night  of  the  September  party  had  been  replaced. 
The  whole  studio  was  filled  with  colour,  blazing  from 
wall  to  wall.  And  Monty  sat  in  sombre  Napoleonic 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  261 

gloom  amid  the  marvels  of  his  invention.  His  face  gave 
no  sign  of  the  slow  and  melancholy  thoughts  which  were 
passing  steadily,  processionally,  before  his  concentrated 
attention.  Monty  never  hurried.  He  always  saw  his 
way  clear  before  taking  any  step.  He  had  a  slow,  fatal- 
istic patience  which  was  almost  always  rewarded. 

For  weeks  now  Monty  had  thought  that  Patricia  Quin 
was  desirable.  He  had  seen  her  first  at  his  ov/n  party 
in  September,  and  since  then  upon  many  occasions.  He 
had  looked  at  her  at  first,  speculating,  with  the  cool  ob- 
servation of  a  connoisseur.  There  was  much  grace, 
much  wil fulness :  her  movements  were  delightful,  and 
the  play  of  her  light  emotions  full  of  singular  interest. 
For  a  little  while  Monty  had  wondered  how  innocent  she 
really  might  be;  for  he  appreciated  freshness  as  much 
as  any  traditional  roue  could  have  done,  and  he  disliked 
what  was  callow.  His  experience  of  women  also  made 
him  suspicious  of  the  assumption  of  purity  in  such  young 
women  as  interested  him.  One  of  Monty's  precepts  had 
been  "You  cannot  shock  a  woman."  It  revealed  in  him 
a  standpoint  already  fixed. 

As  he  had  seen  Patricia  his  interest  in  her  had  grown. 
She  amused  him  by  her  confidence,  her  ignorance;  she 
was  fresh,  and  she  had  spirit.  Moreover,  when  he 
thought  of  her,  Monty  had  the  air  of  one  grimly  smiling. 
Spirit  in  a  young  girl  entertained  him :  it  could  be  played 
with,  and  tormented.  With  its  positive  effects  upon  those 
less  sophisticated  than  himself  he  had  no  concern.  For 
Monty  it  had  no  positive  effects,  since  he  was  entirely 
impervious  to  the  behavior  of  others  where  his  own  de- 
termination was  engaged.  Such  a  spirit  would  be  amus- 
ing to  break.  Nothing  more.  Even  as  he  thought  that, 
Monty  had  an  increased  stolidity  of  air.  But  his  inter- 
est was  not  only  in  her  spirit,  which  was  probably  the 
mark  of  unstable  will.  Patricia  seemed  to  him  in  everv 


262  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

way  delectable.  She  was  unspoilt;  she  was  to  be  won 
by  flattery;  she  was  to  be  kept  by  insolence. 

Nevertheless,  Monty  did  not  under-rate  the  address 
which  might  be  required  in  winning  Patricia.  He  had 
dealt  previously  with  young  women  who  were  without 
experience  of  love.  He  foresaw  that  Patricia  would  be 
shy  as  a  doe,  ready  at  a  single  alarming  move  to  fly. 
She  could  be  flattered,  interested,  cajoled,  by  way  of  her 
vanity ;  but  not  yet  was  the  moment  to  be  ruthless.  That, 
perhaps,  was  a  part  of  the  game.  Patricia  could  be 
roused,  indulged,  enjoyed,  slowly  punished.  At  least 
she  must  be  handled  with  finesse.  Monty  calculated  his 
finesse. 

A  point  which  alarmed  him  was  that  his  own  interest 
had  grown  beyond  what  he  had  at  first  imagined  that  it 
would  be.  He  had  not  been,  at  any  time,  wholly  cold- 
blooded in  his  design.  That  was  not  the  whole  of 
Monty's  nature.  He  had  a  slow,  rising  passion;  and  it 
was  this  which  determined  his  actions  in  all  matters  of 
sex.  But  he  had  been  surprised  to  find,  especially  at 
their  last  two  meetings,  that  Patricia's  innocence,  and  her 
virgin  coldness,  had  moved  him  to  an  unexpected  degree 
of  desire.  Only  by  the  greatest  self-control  had  he  re- 
frained from  alarming  her. 

Monty  appeared  to  sleep  as  he  sat  in  his  chair  in  that 
barbarically-decorated  room  with  the  glass  roof.  A  look 
of  heaviness  spread  across  his  face.  Slowly  his  head 
fell  back  among  the  cushions.  He  was  intently  listening, 
and  his  eyes  were  closed. 

Monty  had  been  right.  The  noise  he  had  heard  had 
been  that  made  by  the  bell.  An  instant  later  the  studio 
door  opened  and  Patricia  appeared,  demure,  even  rogu- 
ish, but  pale  and,  as  he  immediately  saw,  in  a  state  of 
over-strained  nerves  which  signalled  caution.  She  was 
alarmed  by  the  sense  of  danger,  in  no  mood  of  submis- 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  263 

sion,  but  as  timid  as  a  wild  bird.  So  much  was  clear 
even  from  her  glance  round  the  empty  studio,  the  in- 
voluntary sway  of  recoil  which  marked  her  realisation 
of  its  emptiness. 

"Hullo!"  cried  Patricia,  in  greeting.    "Am  I  the  first?" 

"You're  the  most  welcome,"  Monty  assured  her. 
"Come  and  sit  down.  What  a  cold  hand !  Is  it  so  very 
cold  out?" 

"Freezing,"  Patricia  assured  him.  "And  it's  a  horrid 
journey,  you  know." 

"How  stupid  of  me!"  murmured  Monty.  "Yes,  that's 
very  stupid.  I'm  so  sorry.  It's  unpardonable  of  me." 

"Never  mind.  It's  really  quite  all  right.  Who  else 
is  coming?"  she  asked,  eagerly.  "Not  that  I  need  any- 
body else,  of  course."  The  quick  addition  was  a  con- 
scious attempt  to  placate  him,  the  result  of  an  effort  to 
seem  more  experienced  than  in  fact  she  was.  It  did  not 
deceive  Monty. 

"That's  so  kind,"  he  answered.  "To  dinner — nobody. 
I  thought  you  wouldn't  mind  just  ourselves.  But  after- 
wards there  are  several  people — Felix,  and  ...  oh,  I 
forget.  Rudge  and  Cynthia  Blent  and  Mackinnon  and 
Timothy  Webster.  Several  more.  But  they  won't  be 
here  till  good  and  late." 

Patricia  nodded.  Monty  had  not  failed  to  observe 
her  relief.  He  felt  he  had  been  wise  in  thus  depart- 
ing from  his  original  intention,  and  preparing  an  after- 
dinner  party.  His  letter  had  suggested  another  pastime, 
as  they  both  knew.  Neither  commented.  It  might  have 
been,  he  thought,  a  trivial  piece  of  policy;  in  reality,  as 
Monty  instantly  saw,  it  had  saved  the  day.  He  was  per- 
fectly well-aware  that  otherwise  Patricia  would  have  been 
on  edge  for  the  evening. 

"Very  fortunate,"  he  thought  definitely.  "Some- 
thing's been  happening  to  her.  Look  at  the  eyes,  the 


264  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

pupils  .  .  .  hands.  .  .  .  Drawn  lips.  Not  only  fear  of 
me  ...  Strange.  What  can  it  be?  It's  Greenlees,  I 
suppose;  but  what?  Is  she  deeper,  or  stupidly  excit- 
able?" 

"Dinner  is  served,  sir,"  said  Jacobs,  from  the  door- 
way. 

"Come  along!"  Monty  caught  Patricia's  arm  with 
an  attempted  air  of  gaiety.  It  was  essential  him  that  he 
should  touch  her.  At  that  moment  his  impulse  was  sav- 
agely to  embrace  her,  to  force  her  body  against  his  own, 
to  hold  her  to  him  while  he  kissed  ravenously  her  neck 
and  cheeks  and  shoulders. 

Patricia  started  at  the  touch,  and  there  was  a  warning 
degree  of  resistance  in  her  slightly  rigid  arm. 

"I'm  so  glad  you've  got  the  hangings  up  again  in  the 
studio,"  she  said,  with  attempted  ease  as  they  entered  the 
dining-room  thus  linked  and  apart.  "They  make  it  like 
a  necromancer's  consulting  room." 


vn 

"And  supposing  myself  to  be  the  necromancer,"  said 
Monty,  across  the  table,  "how  would  you  wish  to  consult 
me?" 

Patricia  unfolded  her  napkin  before  answering,  and 
looked  round  the  dining  room.  The  ceiling  and  walls 
were  dim,  because  the  room  was  lighted  only  by  half-a- 
dozen  candles  set  upon  the  table.  The  table  itself  had 
been  made  as  small  as  possible,  a  perfect  circle,  and  was 
not  covered  with  a  cloth.  The  candles  within  their  dec- 
orated orange  shades  gave  a  mellow  glow.  She  could 
see  directly  across  the  table  to  Monty,  hardly  three  feet 
away,  and  soup  was  served  the  instant  she  was  seated. 
Jacobs,  having  served  the  soup,  retired  from  the  room  to 
await  a  summons. 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  265 

"I  should  wish  to  consult  you  ...  oh,  upon  a  great 
number  of  things,"  evasively  answered  Patricia. 

"As  for  instance?" 

She  smiled,  looking  quickly  round,  as  if  with  a  sinking 
heart. 

"I  don't  strictly  know  what  a  necromancer  is;  but 
supposing  him  to  be  a  seer  of  the  future,  I  should  like 
to  know  ...  I  should  like  to  know  .  .  .  '  Again  Pa- 
tricia hesitated.  Hastily  she  improvised  a  substitute  for 
the  real  problem  in  her  mind.  "Do  you  believe  in  any- 
thing at  all  ?"  she  asked. 

It  was  strange  how  tones,  however  low,  were  audible 
in  that  room.  She  could  hear  Monty's  rich,  caressing, 
magnetic  voice,  so  soothingly  quiet,  as  if  it  came  from 
beside  her. 

"What  would  you  like  me  to  believe  in?"  he  begged. 
"In  Progress,  or  Faith,  or  the  future  of  England  and  the 
Arts?  In  Beauty  and  Goodness?  In  yourself?" 

"In  honesty,  for  example.     In  truth." 

"My  dear  Patricia,  you  shock  me,"  protested  Monty. 
"I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  truth,  and  of  course  for 
honesty." 

"Have  you  any  familiarity  with  either?"  She  could 
see  that  he  would  not  talk  seriously;  and  she  presently 
was  glad  that  he  would  not  do  so.  She  had  wanted  an- 
swers to  other  questions,  and  not  to  those  she  had  put. 
The  other  questions  it  would  have  been  impossible  to  ask.  . 

"Patricia,  I  find  that  truth  and  honesty  are  supposed 
to  be  dull — so  commonplace  as  to  shock  even  those  who 
seem  to  be  unable  to  invent  any  satisfactory  substitutes. 
'Let  us/  says  the  life-weary  dweller  in  this  district,  'let  us 
read  something  and  see  something  at  the  theatre  which  / 
will  take  us  away  from  the  sordid  truth  of  every-day 
life.'  And  yet,  I  have  never  seen  truth.  I  believe  I 
shouldn't  know  it  if  I  saw  it.  'What  is  truth?'  asked 


266  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

jesting  Pilate;  and  would  not  stay  for  an  answer.  He 
might  have  waited  until  the  last  trump.  As  for  honesty, 
it's  an  appanage  of  truth,  another  romantic  illusion.  If 
you  had  asked  me  if  I  believed  in  Beauty,  or  Goodness, 
or  in  yourself,  I  should  have  said  that  the  terms  were  in- 
distinguishable." 

"That  would  have  been  ample  answer  to  my  question 
about  honesty,"  said  Patricia.  "I  don't  think  I  shall  ask 
more  questions  of  the  necromancer.  He  seems  to  me 
rather  specious."  Nevertheless,  Monty's  elaborate  reply 
to  her  false  question  had  increased  her  composure.  She 
was  almost  at  ease,  but  still  there  was  something  to  Monty 
not  quite  comprehensible  in  her  ever  so  faintly  agitated 
manner.  "Won't  you  .  .  .  won't  you  tell  me  some- 
thing about  Carthage,  please,  or  Egypt,  or  the  Desert 
.  .  ."  she  asked. 

"The  desert,"  said  Monty,  musingly.  "Yes,  the 
desert.  .  .  ." 

viii 

He  described  to  the  wondering  Patricia  the  Nile  as  he 
had  seen  it,  and  how  it  takes  its  rise  in  the  mountains, 
and  how  at  first  the  river  is  red  and  then  green  because 
of  the  flood  of  the  Blue  Nile,  and  how  the  flood  of  the 
White  Nile  comes  later,  so  that  the  banks  are  covered 
and  the  surrounding  country  is  inundated  with  rich  fer- 
tilising mud.  He  described  the  desert,  and  repeated  that 
short  poem  of  Shelley's  about  the  King  Ozymandias. 
He  told  her  of  the  sounds  and  colours  of  the  East,  of  all 
those  things  which  as  a  traveller  he  had  seen  and 
experienced.  He  pictured  the  crowds  of  the  Bazaar,  the 
contrasts,  always  keeping  to  familiar  things  of  which 
she  might  have  read,  for  the  sake  of  reawakening  past 
imagination  and  past  emotion,  which  would  be  so  potent 
in  colouring  her  present  mood.  And  all  the  time  he  was 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  267 

speaking  in  that  slow  magic-creating  voice  of  sweetness. 
Monty's  eyes  never  once  left  Patricia,  but  continued  to 
absorb  her  fairness  and  her  purity,  as  though  he  could 
never  cease  from  desiring  her  more  than  anything  upon 
earth  or  beyond  life  itself. 

So  given  were  they  both  to  this  scene  that  the  food 
before  them  was  eaten  mechanically,  and  the  wine  they 
drank  insensibly  was  making  them  more  intimate  and 
more  at  the  mercy  of  the  hour;  and  Patricia  hardly  knew 
that  she  was  eating  and  drinking,  so  much  was  she  in  a 
dream.  And  in  the  dream  she  was  haunted  by  the  sense 
'that  she  would  awaken,  that  fierce,  cruel  birds  of  prey 
were  tearing  her  heart,  that  never  again  would  she 
know  tranquillity  or  ease  of  spirit.  And  Monty  was 
watching  her  still,  with  eyes  that  yielded  nothing  and  took 
everything,  while  he  sought  only  to  maintain  the  power 
which  he  was  achieving  by  the  effect  of  his  story  upon 
her  imagination.  To  Monty  all  the  marvel  of  which 
he  spoke  was  familiar.  He  was  unmoved  by  it.  Patri- 
cia's beauty,  and  that  alone,  was  the  cause  of  his  unre- 
laxing  attentiveness,  the  creeping  white  heat  of  his  feel- 
ing, which  grew  each  moment  more  fierce,  more  concen- 
trated, more  difficult  to  keep  within  his  own  power.  He 
was  moved  so  vehemently  that  his  eyes  were  glowing. 
Into  his  face  had  stolen  that  look  of  greedy  sensual  heav- 
iness which  his  passion  created.  His  voice  was  lower, 
and  the  softness  had  given  place  to  a  dryer  tone,  still 
caressing,  still  full  of  unknown  music,  but  deeper  and 
less  smooth.  His  lips  were  apart,  showing  his  white 
teeth.  His  hands  upon  the  table  were  rigid. 

And  something  made  Patricia  look  suddenly  at  Monty, 
when  his  expression  was  unguarded;  and  she  had  this 
clear  understanding  of  his  nature  and  his  attitude  to  her- 
self. Again  she  had  the  sensation  which  had  come  to 
her  at  night  after  they  had  parted;  of  blood  which  rose 


268  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

to  her  cheeks  and  shoulders,  which  in  its  recession  made 
her  body  burn.  It  was  with  fear,  a  fear  which  made  a 
shrill  cry  of  protest,  of  agony,  difficult  to  repress,  that 
she  slightly  shrank.  The  colour  faded  from  her  cheeks. 
It*  was  succeeded  by  deadly  pallor,  and  a  trembling  such 
as  she  could  never  previously  have  known. 


IX 

After  the  dinner  was  finished,  they  went  back  to  the 
studio  for  coffee;  but  the  picture  of  the  East  was  for- 
gotten, and  to  both  of  them  it  was  the  moment  alone  that 
was  the  secret  preoccupation.  Patricia  sat  upon  a  low 
seat  near  the  fire,  and  smoked  a  cigarette ;  and  they  spoke 
of  other  things  without  conviction,  and  without  more 
than  a  pretence  of  interest  or  intimacy.  And  when  Monty 
would  again  have  engaged  her  with  pictures  of  travel  she 
was  steadfast  in  refusal  to  yield  herself.  There  was  a 
chasm  between  them.  He  could  see  that  she  had  taken 
fright.  He  was  once  more  adroitly  soothing — talked 
of  the  furnishings  of  his  studio,  and,  indicating  each, 
said  how  he  had  acquired  it,  and  with  what  pure  cunning 
— talked  not  very  light-hearted  nonsense  about  the  people 
who  were  coming  later  in  the  evening — talked  of  pictures 
and  music,  of  mountains  and  lakes  and  seas — everything 
to  reassure  her  and  restore  her  ease.  But  all  the  time 
Patricia  could  remember  that  glow  in  his  eyes  to  which 
she  had  awakened  at  the  table;  and  she  shrank  back,  un- 
controllably, filled  with  vehement  dread,  shocked  with 
the  sense  of  these  impenetrable  hangings,  the  dreadful 
silence  beyond  the  closed  door. 

And  Monty  could  not  continue  to  control  himself  with 
the  same  coolness.  With  every  effort  to  maintain  the 
earlier  calm,  he  was  driven  by  urgent  necessity  to  ap- 
proach her  more  nearly.  Still  he  did  not  touch  her;  but 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  269 

his  manifestly  exercised  restraint  was  betrayed  in  every 
tone.  The  colours  of  those  barbaric  curtains  and  chairs 
began  for  Patricia  to  merge  and  swim  together.  And 
Monty  was  no  longer  a  man;  he  became  some  diabolical 
and  terrifying  figure,  dark,  sinister,  grotesque.  She  was 
afraid — not  now  of  herself,  as  she  had  been,  but  solely 
of  him.  She  was  cooler  now,  but  watchful,  still  half- 
fascinated,  but  as  one  on  edge  in  face  of  danger.  Monty 
was  laughing  and  speaking  of  the  dancing  which  they 
had  amusedly  noticed  at  their  last  visit  to  Topping's;  of 
Jacky  Dean;  of  the  crowd;  of  other  clubs.  He  imitated 
Jacky's  devoted,  colourless  style,  which  moved  him  to 
great  mirth,  prolonged  until  it  began  to  jar.  And  at  last 
he  said : 

"Have  you  seen  the  new  steps?  Look.  .  .  ."  As  he 
spoke,  he  began  dancing  alone  in  the  middle  of  the  bril- 
liant studio,  a  black  figure  of  grace,  his  head  turned  from 
her  so  that  she  should  not  see  the  colour  of  his  cheeks  and 
the  ferocity  of  his  eyes;  while  Patricia  watched  the  move- 
ment of  his  feet  and  the  poise  of  his  body.  "See  ?  Ta- 
ta-tum-ta  .  .  .  Two  steps  .  .  .  it's  a  variation  of  the 
Tango,  of  course,  very  much  simplified;  but  it's  rather 
deceptive.  Try  it.  .  .  ." 

He  approached  her,  his  hands  outstretched.  With  a 
heart  of  water,  Patricia  rose,  half -protesting.  Their 
hands  met,  their  heads  were  level.  And  as  Monty  held 
her  so  he  increased  and  strengthened  his  hold  until  with 
suddenly  uncontrollable  passion  he  was  savagely  pressing 
her  to  him  and  with  fury  advancing  his  face  so  that  he 
might  command  her  lips.  His  whole  body  was  rigid. 
The  muscles  of  his  arms  were  like  iron  to  her  tender 
flesh.  Patricia  did  not  scream.  She  could  not  have 
done  so.  Both  were  desperately  silent  except  for  their 
heavy  breathing.  She  withdrew  her  head  to  the  greatest 
distance  that  Monty's  cruel  hold  allowed,  until  she  was 


270  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

suffocating.  One  hand  was  tightly  pressed  to  Monty's 
side  between  his  body  and  her  own,  and  was  useless. 
The  other  remained.  With  all  her  hysterical  strength 
she  used  it  to  push  away  that  dark,  insistent  face.  Pat- 
ricia's strength  at  the  moment  of  stress  was  so  abnormal 
that,  suddenly  exerted  so  very  little  more,  it  might  have 
been  sufficient  to  dislocate  his  neck.  It  was  for  an  in- 
stant only.  They  were  struggling  no  more.  Monty  re- 
leased her,  and  they  drew  apart,  panting.  Red  marks 
were  beneath  Monty's  chin.  Patricia  felt  bruised,  as  she 
might  have  done  if  she  had  been  severely  beaten  with  a 
stick.  She  was  shuddering. 

"I'm  sorry,  Patricia,"  Monty  said,  harshly.  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  It  was  too  much  for  me."  The  two  of 
them  turned  away  from  each  other,  Monty  breathing 
rapidly,  Patricia  still  almost  stifled.  "Did  I  hurt  you? 
Poor  child !  I  was  brutal.  I'm  sorry.  ..." 

With  her  heart  seeming  to  beat  in  her  throat,  Patricia 
nodded  slowly. 

"My  fault,"  she  said,  indistinctly.     "I  ought.  .  .  ." 

Both,  if  it  had  not  been  for  breathlessness  and  dishevel- 
ment,  were  treating  the  situation  with  strange  coolness, 
as  if  all  heat  had  evaporated  from  it.  Patricia  had  no 
fear.  She  knew  that  the  embrace  could  not  be  repeated. 
It  was  as  though  the  fire  which  had  burned  in  Monty 
had  been  extinguished.  He  stood  before  her,  recover- 
ing his  normal  address,  the  heaviness  gone  from  his  face, 
and  the  fury  from  his  eyes.  Already  he  was  slipping 
back  into  that  slow  thick  courtesy  of  manner  which  had 
been  so  attractive.  Quite  soon  he  would  be  debonair, 
perfectly  at  ease.  And  she  herself,  incapable  of  thought, 
and  in  a  state  of  physical  agitation  though  she  was,  be- 
came apparently  composed.  But  even  as  Patricia  felt 
this,  she  was  overcome  by  deadly  sickness.  Her  pallor 
was  increased.  She  groped  her  way  to  the  fireplace, 


PLAYING  WITH  FIRE  271 

resting  her  head  against  the  cool  mantelpiece  in  an  effort 
to  recover.  And  as  she  stood  thus,  only  half-conscious, 
there  came  a  sound  which  made  Monty  start.  He  gave 
an  exclamation,  and  turned  quickly.  At  first  his  hands 
went  to  his  neck,  instinctively  to  the  spot  where  he  might 
bear  marks  of  the  struggle.  Then,  from  a  sharp  glance, 
with  similar  intent,  at  Patricia,  he  discovered  her  faint- 
ing condition. 

"Good  God,  you're  ill!"  he  cried.  "That's  the  bell. 
They'll  be  coming  now.  Drink  this.  For  God's  sake 
don't  let  them  see  .  .  ." 

As  he  spoke  he  moved  quickly  across  the  studio  to  a 
cupboard,  from  which  he  produced  and  brought  to  her 
side  a  decanter  and  glass.  Again  Patricia  nodded,  taking 
the  glass  from  his  hand,  and  sitting  once  more  upon  her 
low  chair,  and  drinking  the  brandy.  It  made  her  cough. 
In  the  midst  of  her  coughing  the  studio  door  opened  and 
a  merry  group  of  newcomers,  all  peeping  and  laughing, 
appeared  without. 

They  gave  universal  shouts  of  greeting,  and  pro- 
claimed envy  of  anybody  caught  with  a  brandy-glass  in 
her  hand,  and  made  general  uproar.  And  in  doing  so  the 
crowd  pushed  its  way  into  the  studio  and  its  members 
scattered. 

"Hul-lo !"  they  jovially  cried.  "Caught  you,  Patricia ! 
Leading  an  inebriate's  life,  I  see  .  .  .  Greedy!  Oh!" 

Patricia,  laughing,  waved  the  glass  in  acknowledg- 
ment ;  but  it  was  poor  laughter,  and  was  fortunately  un- 
heard amid  the  louder  noises  of  the  careless  people  who 
had  brought  their  own  gaiety. 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN:  THE  VISITOR 


THE  noise  which  the  others  made,  as  fresh  arrivals 
increased  their  numbers,  enabled  Monty  to  return 
to  Patricia's  side.  She  could  see  a  whiteness  even  in 
Monty's  cheeks  when  he  was  quite  close  to  her,  and  her 
aversion  to  him  died.  Quickly  her  heart  told  her  that 
he  too  was  suffering. 

"How  are  you  feeling  ?  Would  you  care  to  lie  down  ? 
Shall  I  get  you  a  taxi?  I  can't  get  rid  of  these  people 
yet.  If  you'll  lie  down,  I'll  take  you  home  later." 

"I'll  go  soon,"  she  whispered  back,  touched  by  his 
subdued  tone.  "Don't  worry.  I'm  all  right.  I'm  bet- 
ter. I'll  go  presently,  when  I  feel  able.  I'll  just  slip 
out." 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  he  repeated.  "Look  here,  I  must  see 
you  before  you  go." 

At  that  her  nerves  again  raised  protest.  A  deep  shud- 
der shook  her. 

"I'd  rather  not,"  she  said,  in  the  same  low  voice.  "I 
couldn't  stand  any  more  .  .  .  excitement  to-night." 

"I  must  see  you,"  he  said.  "You  mustn't  go  without 
giving  me  five  minutes." 

And  at  that  moment  there  was  a  loud  call  for  him 
from  the  other  end  of  the  studio,  and  Monty  left  Patricia. 
She  continued  to  sit  quite  still,  while  the  brandy  began 
slowly  to  have  its  effect.  The  blood  stole  back  to  her 
cheeks.  She  looked  at  her  little  hands,  which  lay  to- 
gether, clenched,  in  her  lap,  and  slowly  unclenched  them, 

so  that  the  knuckles  were  no  longer  white.     The  nails  had 

272 


THE  VISITOR  273 

left  two  or  three  pink  marks  in  her  palms,  which  gradu- 
ally disappeared.  The  shuddering  left  her  body,  which 
was  now  quite  inert.  A  dreadful  sensation  of  staleness 
pervaded  Patricia.  Her  head  ached.  Quietly,  and  as 
if  by  accident,  Monty  was  near  her  again.  He  poured 
a  little  more  brandy  into  her  glass. 

"Patricia's  not  very  grand,"  she  heard  him  whisper  to 
another  man.  "See  that  she  drinks  this,  will  you?" 

The  other  man,  a  stranger,  drew  up  his  chair,  and  sat 
near  her,  talking  in  a  low  voice  while  she  drank  the 
brandy.  She  could  not  understand  what  he  said,  but 
his  voice  was  grateful.  She  smiled  her  thanks  at  him, 
and  her  attention  wandered  away  to  the  groups  in  other 
parts  of  the  studio,  so  loud,  so  closely  resembling  in  ap- 
pearance the  groups  which  had  been  present  on  the  occa- 
sion of  her  first  visit  to  this  studio. 

So  much  had  happened  since  that  evening  that  she 
realised  how  changed  she  now  was.  It  seemed  to  Patri- 
cia that  she  must  have  been  a  child  then.  She  felt  very 
old  now,  as  if  she  were  looking  back,  an  old  woman,  upon 
days  of  happy  ignorance.  The  noise  did  not  echo  sweetly 
in  her  ears  as  it  had  done.  This  was  no  longer  an  en- 
chanted meeting-place  for  those  who  were  wise  and  won- 
derful and  superior  to  the  rest  of  all  human  beings.  She 
had  seen  so  much,  and  felt  so  much,  since  she  had  first 
known  them,  that  the  staleness  which  had  come  upon  her 
this  evening  was  diffused  among  the  visitors.  She  felt 
them  to  be  also  stale,  curious  automata  chattering  to  hide 
their  emptiness  and  unhappiness,  as  she  too  might  now 
chatter  to  combat  the  knowledge  that  she  was  weary  and 
unable  any  longer  to  experience  simple  things  with  her 
old  fresh  delight. 

A  sigh  shook  Patricia.  The  feeling  of  sickness  re- 
mained with  her.  And  this  stranger  who  tried  vainly  to 
distract  her  attention  with  idle  speeches  about  things  she 


274,  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

did  not  understand  and  did  not  want  to  understand  was 
no  other  than  the  rest.  She  could  see  his  long  hair  and 
hear  his  thin  light  voice;  and  she  was  stirred  by  a  con- 
tempt for  all  that  these  groups  represented.  But  her 
contempt  no  longer  arose  from  a  sense  that  she  was  su- 
perior to  the  groups.  For  the  first  time  she  was  sick  at 
heart  as  well  as  in  mind  and  body.  She  made  no  attempt 
to  listen.  She  only  felt  tired  and  filled  with  distaste  and 
the  longing  for  quietude  and  sincerity.  The  crowd  be- 
came vague.  At  first  Patricia  thought  that  she  was  again 
in  danger  of  fainting;  but  she  was  immediately  better, 
and  able  at  last  to  hear  what  the  man  said.  He  was 
talking  about  the  theatre,  and  was  describing  a  play  he 
had  seen. 

"Perfectly  ghastly  ..."  he  was  saying.  "And  all 
these  suburbans  were  enjoying  it  with  all  their  ears.  A 
silly  little  fool  of  a  girl,  supposed  to  be  extraordinarily 
charming;  and  saying  and  doing  the  most  incredible 
things.  .  .  ." 

ii 

Patricia  could  never  have  understood  that  it  was  her 
state  of  mind  alone  which  made  these  people  distasteful 
to  her.  Any  other  crowd  would  have  seemed  equally 
empty  and  unprofitable.  But  she  was  sitting  amid  the 
noise  sobered  by  her  late  excitement;  and  her  reactions 
were  so  rapid  that  she  was  misconstruing  a  mood  as  a 
revelation.  As  she  had  hitherto  overvalued  herself,  and 
then,  by  the  mere  plunge  of  her  neuroticism,  had  under- 
valued every  quality  she  had,  she  now  felt  aghast  at  the 
results  of  her  own  unreasoning  wil  fulness.  She  saw 
herself  as  a  feather,  tossed  by  every  wind  of  inclination, 
veering,  flying,  without  will.  She  was  deeply  shocked. 

She  thought  of  Harry;  of  Monty;  of  Edgar;  and  she 
was  ashamed.  There  was  no  indignation  towards  Monty; 


THE  VISITOR  275 

only  acid  shame.  She  had  been  fascinated,  tempted ;  she 
had  been  flattered  and  excited;  and  her  vanity  had  be- 
trayed her.  When  the  reality  had  come  she  had  awak- 
ened to  the  understanding  that  this  fascinating  sport 
with  fire  was  a  horror  to  her.  She,  who  had  thought 
herself  so  clever,  and  so  experienced,  was  appalled  at  the 
very  thing  which  she  had  supposed  so  fascinating.  She 
felt  like  the  little  boy  who  coveted  one  of  those  big  glass 
jars  full  of  coloured  liquid  which  still  stand  in  the  win- 
dows of  small  pharmacies ;  and  who,  when  the  water  had 
been  emptied,  found  himself  possessed  of  a  jar  without 
beauty.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  bitter  than  the 
realisation  that  she  was  a  fool  who  had  not  even  the  cour- 
age to  pursue  her  folly  to  its  end. 

Patricia  had  played  with  the  idea  of  love  for  Harry; 
and  it  had  been  shown  to  be  empty.  She  hardly  thought 
of  him.  Lightly,  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  love.  And 
then,  tempted,  she  had  enjoyed  her  sense  of  power  over 
Monty.  She  had  responded  to  him,  encouraged  him; 
and  the  result  had  been  this  evening's  ignominious  strug- 
gle. The  bruises  she  had  received  had  been  not  only 
those  of  the  body;  they  had  been  bruises  of  her  self- 
esteem,  of  the  immaculate  legend  of  Patricia  Quin. 

Subdued,  miserable,  she  accepted  her  mortification. 

"I've  had  my  lesson!"  she  thought.  And  then,  with 
a  rising  of  that  fear  which  she  had  thought  to  allay  by 
means  of  excitement,  she  exclaimed :  "But  what  in  the 
world  am  I  to  do?" 

iii 

It  was  to  Patricia  an  appalling  moment  of  realisation. 
She  fell  into  a  kind  of  stupor,  a  dream  in  which  all  things 
appeared  to  her  in  a  clear  light  of  understanding,  in 
which  facts  which  hitherto  she  had  not  truly  perceived 
were  made  apparent.  She  was  not  asleep,  but  she  was  so 


276  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

absorbed  in  contemplation  that  all  noise  made  an  under- 
song to  her  reverie. 

"I've  been  too  clever,"  she  thought.  "I  shall  always 
be  too  clever  for  myself,  too  big  for  my  boots.  All  my 
life.  I  shall  go  on  and  on,  thinking  myself  so  marvel- 
lous, until  I  come  up  against  .  .  .  what?  How  am  I 
marvellous  at  all  ?  What  have  I  ever  done  that  I  should 
consider  myself  marvellous?  Nothing!"  It  was  a  ter- 
rible confession.  If  she  had  been  alone  she  must  have 
screamed.  But  she  was  not  alone.  She  was  in  this 
wildly-coloured  room,  where  each  thing  had  been  brought 
and  placed  by  some  inner  certainty  of  judgment  on 
Monty's  part,  until  the  whole  room  was  a  sort  of  picture 
of  his  mind ;  and  there  were  others  laughing  and  talking 
within  a  few  yards  of  her.  And  as  Patricia  remembered 
that  this  piece  of  stuff  had  been  brought  from  that  place, 
and  this  other  given  by  some  friend,  and  a  lacquered 
chest  discovered  in  a  small  shop  in  Dublin,  and  a  bronze 
figure  .  .  .  she  could  not  prevent  herself  from  thinking 
that  Monty  was  much  more  wonderful  than  she  would 
ever  be,  much  more  wonderful,  perhaps,  than  she  had 
ever  imagined.  She  saw  him  among  his  guests,  ever 
and  anon  glancing  to  make  sure  that  she  was  still  there, 
that  she  was  better;  and  Patricia  knew  that  in  culture 
and  acquaintance  with  all  beautiful  and  sophisticated 
things  he  had  wisdom  that  she  would  never  attain.  This 
whole  house  was  filled  with  his  personality,  filled  with 
his  taste  and  his  knowledge,  his  love  of  rare  things  and 
those  that  were  rich  in  colour  and  florid  in  design.  His 
interests  were  innumerable.  He  could  talk  of  all  the  arts 
as  only  one  who  was  a  connoisseur  in  each  could  talk. 
His  sensitiveness  to  these  arts,  so  coolly  displayed,  was 
due  not  only  to  spontaneous  outgoing  to  whatever  was 
sightly  but  to  the  gift  which  enabled  him  tc  appraise  its 
quality,  and  that  degree  of  precision  to  the  artist's  con- 


THE  VISITOR  277 

cept  to  which  a  work  of  art  owes  its  singularity  and  there- 
fore its  permanence.  He  was  not  a  child,  exclaiming  at 
a  toy :  he  was  the  product  of  a  civilisation,  of  many  civ- 
ilisations. His  merest  words  were  charged  with  refer- 
ences and  associations  of  which  Patricia  must  for  ever 
remain  ignorant.  And  with  all  this  knowledge,  all  this 
culture,  Monty  was  at  bottom  the  crude  animal  she  had 
discovered.  He  had  wanted  her  as  an  animal  wants  an- 
other animal  of  the  same  species.  And  Patricia  had 
opposed  her  will  to  his,  her  instinctive  doctrine  of  life 
to  Monty's.  Well? 

Harry  Greenlees  had  nothing  like  Monty's  culture.  In 
Monty's  sense  he  was  not  even  educated.  But  even 
Harry  was  better-instructed  and  more  positive  than  her- 
self. He  was  an  individual;  he  could  stand  alone; 
whereas  Patricia  only  tried  to  do  so,  and  made  a  tremen- 
dous fuss  about  standing  alone.  Harry  was  physically 
as  charming  as  herself.  He  was  lively,  beautiful,  able  to 
do  many  unexpected  things  which  were  outside  the  needs 
of  his  daily  life.  He  could  spend  whole  days  alone  with- 
out monotony,  which  in  itself  was  testimony  to  his  en- 
dowment. He  could  tell  all  the  wild  flowers  of  Europe 
in  their  seasons ;  without  pretending  to  be  a  musician  he 
could  play  the  piano  well  enough  to  be  mistaken  by  the 
unlearned  for  a  professional ;  and  without  pretending  to 
be  an  artist  he  could  draw  with  a  certain  cunning.  And 
he  was  a  competent  journalist,  a  specialist  in  his  own 
department,  rough  and  ready  in  diction,  but  capable  and 
individual  in  style.  His  technical  acquaintance  with  all 
sports  was  considerable.  In  his  own  way  Harry  also 
was  a  connoisseur.  He  had  a  devotion  to  sport  and 
sportsmanship,  and  a  code  which  related  itself  to  the 
sporting  code;  and  his  sureness  of  judgment  in  every- 
thing sporting  was  that  of  a  good  critic.  And  at  bot- 
tom Harry  was  just  a  rolling  stone,  wandering  about  the 


278  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

world  for  the  fun  of  it;  and  he  had  wanted  Patricia  for 
his  chum,  to  roll  about  the  world  with  him  for  a  space, 
until  one  or  other  of  them  was  tired  of  the  exploit.  And 
Patricia  had  refused  to  roll  about  the  world,  because  she 
imagined  that  she  had  a  nobler  destiny.  Well? 

Edgar  was  a  man  who  by  the  strict  disciplining  of  his 
natural  capacity  had  done  what  came  first  to  his  hand. 
He  had  learnt  the  details  of  a  business  which  had  been 
distasteful  to  him ;  and  he  had  mastered  them.  He  had 
made  money,  he  had  travelled,  he  had  created  a  micro- 
cosm for  his  family,  in  which  they  moved  graciously  and 
comfortably.  The  whole  of  his  business  was  at  the  tips 
of  his  fingers;  his  reading  was  considerable,  and  his  un- 
derstanding enormous.  She  had  never  yet  found  Edgar 
betraying  by  a  false  note  any  failure  to  comprehend  the 
essential  qualities  of  a  subject  or  its  intricacies.  His 
mind  was  so  trained  that  he  unerringly  caught  secondary 
meanings,  and  those  which  were  implicit.  He  spoke 
without  any  air  of  authority;  but  she  knew  that  he  was 
reckoned  wise  even  among  men  of  greater  accomplish- 
ments. And  Edgar  had  offered  her  help  and  love;  and 
Patricia  had  clung  to  her  own  path  of  folly.  What  had 
she  to  put  against  this  weight  of  challenge?  If  she  in- 
sisted upon  her  personality,  in  what  way  was  the  in- 
trinsic value  of  this  personality  made  manifest  to  the 
impressible  world? 

Soberly  Patricia  faced  the  challenge,  shrinking  from 
it.  She  was  a  pretty  girl ;  she  had  high  spirits,  cleverness 
of  wit  and  tongue;  an  extraordinary  sense  of  the  possi- 
bilities of  her  own  talent.  And  she  was  essentially  a 
woman.  It  was  because  of  her  sex  that  she  was  at  a 
disadvantage  in  her  power  to  experience  active  life;  but 
it  was  also  because  of  her  sex,  and  not  because  she  could 
command  equality  of  knowledge  or  understanding  with 
them,  that  these  three  men  sought  her  and  desired  her. 


THE  VISITOR  279 

If  she  had  refused  all  of  them  it  was  because  either  she 
thought  none  of  them  was  worthy  of  her  love;  or  because 
she  had  such  confidence  in  her  own  individuality  that 
she  preferred  to  go  forward  alone.  That  is,  because  she 
thought  that  the  gift  she  had  for  the  world  was  greater 
than  the  gift  which  these  men  desired  of  her.  Was  it 
that  she  proposed  to  remain  unmarried,  to  ignore  love? 
Her  response  to  Harry  and  Monty  had  proved  that  this 
was  not  so.  She  could  not  stand  alone.  Patricia  shrank 
from  the  knowledge;  but  it  was  forced  upon  her  in  her 
present  mood.  And  presently  she  made,  aside  from  all 
these  specious  exaggerations  of  the  value  of  knowledge 
for  its  own  sake,  a  genuine  discovery. 

To  the  question  which  rebelliously  she  put  to  her  own 
challenge,  "Why  should  they  be  so  much  .  .  .  more 
learned  .  .  .  than  I  ?"  came  an  answer  which  was  a  rev- 
elation. It  was  unwelcome.  She  disliked  it,  and  pres- 
ently would  fall  upon  her  own  intuition  and  perhaps 
destroy  it.  But  for  the  moment  it  was  valid.  Patricia 
was  not  incapable  of  such  flights  of  intuition,  and — as 
she  did  now — she  generally  over-valued  them  as  truths. 
The  answer  which  she  received  from  herself  in  the  course 
of  this  singular  vision  was:  "Because  they  are  all  inter- 
ested in  something  else  besidfiS-thfiDLScbte&J* 

K>ne  awoke  from  her  dream  to  find  that  the  party  was 
still  in  progress;  and  that  the  man  beside  her  was  still 
speaking  with  unabated  zest  of  the  theatre,  which  seems 
to  be  an  unrivalled  subject  for  monologue.  With  a  yawn, 
Patricia  saw  that  the  whole  of  her  analysis  had  passed 
within  a  few  minutes.  Nevertheless  she  remembered  it 
very  clearly ;  and  she  was  still,  as  the  result  of  her  intel- 
lectual pilgrimage,  very  serious. 


280  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iv 

It  is  one  thing  to  receive  such  an  inspiration  as  this, 
however,  and  it  is  quite  another  to  believe  it.  To  believe 
it,  that  is,  as  one  believes  in  such  things  as  breakfast,  or 
to-morrow,  or  relativity.  Consequently  Patricia  felt  al- 
ready a  little  vague.  She  was  not  satisfied  even  with  her 
inspiration,  though  it  had  descended  in  a  dream.  She 
knew  that  it  was  a  feminine  intuition,  and  feminine  in- 
tuitions, however  acute,  are  as  the  interpretations  of  the 
stars  or  the  palm  or  the  tealeaf — never  so  remarkable  or 
so  celebrated  as  when  they  are  confirmed.  And  as  she 
conned  her  problem,  Patricia  had  a  very  singular  notion. 
She  found  herself  thinking: 
"I  shall  ask  Edgar." 

She  was  astounded  at  herself.  She  almost  begged  her- 
self to  repeat  something  half -heard  which  had  seemed 
incredible.  "Oh,  I  couldn't  ask  him!"  she  said,  as  if  in 
answer,  "I  shan't  see  him  again.  Of  course  I  shall  see 
him  again.  How  absurd !  I  mustn't  be  silly.  He's  my 
friend."  And  with  that  a  low  small  laugh  escaped  her 
lips.  Her  thoughts  strayed  into  a  fresh  vein.  She  won- 
dered what  would  have  happened  if  the  others  had  not 
come  into  the  studio,  if  Monty  and  she  had  still  been 
alone  there.  She  knew  that  she  would  not  still  have  been 
in  the  studio  at  all,  since  she  would  have  been  driven  to 
leave  the  house  long  before.  And  her  mind  leapt  back  to 
that  suggestion  about  Edgar.  Again  she  had  that  con- 
sciousness of  refuge  in  him.  "I  should  have  ...  I 
should  have  .  .  ."  Then,  very  quietly  indeed,  but  also 
with  conclusive  sharpness :  "I  couldn't.  .  .  ." 
X"  If  only  one  could  do  things  as  they  came  into  one's 
V^head,  all  the  same,  how  easy  life  would  be! 

Patricia  sighed.     She  interrupted  the  young  theatrical 
enthusiast,  who  was  talking  about  societies  which  were 


THE  VISITOR  281 

being  formed  in  all  the  villages  in  England  for  the  per- 
formance of  Euripides  in  Gilbert  Murray's  translation. 

''What  nonsense!"  she  said,  still  only  half -attentive  to 
what  her  new  friend  was  saying,  and  without  conscious 
rudeness.  "I'm  going  home  now.  Thank  you  very 
much  for  looking  after  me.  I'm  quite  well  again." 

And  with  that  she  rose  and  went  quickly  to  the  door 
of  the  studio. 

Monty  followed. 


He  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  pursuit  from  the 
other  guests.  He  was  too  obviously  afraid  that  Patricia 
might  slip  out  of  the  house,  and  so  escape  him.  And  the 
urgency  of  his  desire  to  speak  with  her  was  extreme. 
He  arrived  in  the  hall  just  as  she  disappeared  into  the 
room  where  her  hat  and  coat  had  been  left;  and  Monty 
waited  there  in  the  dimmed  light,  a  sombre  figure,  with 
his  head  lowered  and  his  broad  shoulders  bowed.  To 
Patricia,  emerging,  he  was  like  an  emissary  of  the  In- 
quisition, so  appalling,  even  to  her  expectant  eye,  was 
his  appearance.  She  lifted  her  own  shoulders  with  a 
slight  brusqueness,  her  head  high,  and  her  breath  rapid. 

"Good-night,"  said  Patricia,  quickly.  She  moved  to- 
wards the  front  door. 

"Not  yet."     It  was  an  appeal,  a  deep  whisper. 

"No,  no.     I'm  going." 

"I  must  see  you — speak  to  you — for  an  instant.  Pat- 
ricia .  .  ." 

Monty  had  interposed  himself  in  order  that  she  might 
not  reach  the  door  without  touching  him.  and  as  Patricia 
could  not  have  borne  this  contact  she  was  checked  in- 
stantly. She  stood,  hesitant ;  and  then  with  bowed  head 
followed  the  direction  of  his  entreating  arm  and  stepped 
into  the  room  at  the  farther  side  of  the  hall.  It  was  the 


282  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

amber-hued  drawing-room  in  which  Edgar  had  seen 
Monty  a  few  evenings  previously,  a  lofty  room  which 
the  electric  light  caused  to  become  faintly  and  alluringly 
luminous.  There  was  a  fire,  and  the  room  was  warm; 
but  Patricia  was  shivering  a  little  as  she  stood  a  short 
distance  from  the  door,  facing  him.  Monty  followed  her 
into  the  room,  closing  the  door. 

"Won't  you  come  over  to  the  fire?'*  he  said  in  his 
gentlest  tone.  "I  can't  let  you  go  like  this  without  a 
word." 

Still  that  careful  modulation,  still  the  raised  note  at 
the  end  of  the  sentence !  She  went  nearer  to  the  fire,  and 
Monty  stood  near  her,  by  the  table. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  forgive  me?"  he  asked,  suddenly. 
His  manner  was  slightly  changed.  A  familiarity  had 
entered  it,  as  though  they  had  a  secret  understanding; 
but  he  was  still  bearing  himself  with  soft  respect.  Nev- 
ertheless, beneath  his  humility  there  was  ironic  contempt 
for  her  sex  which  betrayed  him. 

Patricia  started  at  the  tone,  at  the  discovery.  The 
tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She  felt  she  had  no  use  at  all 
for  such  false  contrition  as  he  was  prepared  to  display. 
It  was  not  forgiveness  Monty  desired.  He  was  deliber- 
ately pandering  to  a  mentality  which  his  sensual  cynicism 
led  him  to  despise.  Having,  apparently,  no  belief  in 
purity  in  women,  he  was  prepared  elaborately  to  connive 
at  its  cunning  or  hysterical  assumption  and  to  submit 
to  its  merely  formal  placation.  He  was  the  diplomat, 
playing  a  familiar  game,  bargaining  with  vanity;  not  a 
penitent.  And  to  Patricia  such  insolent  flattery  was 
more  offensive  than  a  brazen  making-light  of  the  episode 
would  have  been. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,  Monty,"  she  begged.  "It  isn't 
forgiveness  you  need;  and  you  know  it.  I  can't  talk 
about  forgiving.  Surely  you  see  that." 


THE  VISITOR  283 

"I  want  you  to  believe  that  in  asking  you  here — " 
began  Monty,  cajolingly,  still  with  that  cringing  air  which 
masked  watchfulness  for  any  sign  of  emotion  or  re- 
lenting. 

Patricia  laughed — uncontrollably. 

"Oh,  Monty !"  she  exclaimed ;  and  there  were  still  tears 
in  her  voice  at  the  knowledge  that  he  held  her  to  be 
simply  a  common  piece  of  woman's  flesh,  to  be  won  still, 
so  long  as  he  sacrificed  to  her  false  delicacy,  assumed, 
perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  bargaining. 

"It's  true,"  he  persisted,  with  more  energy.  Patricia 
turned  aside,  weary  of  the  encounter,  sickened  at  his  cyn- 
ical insincerity. 

"I've  told  you  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  forgiveness," 
she  said.  "I  couldn't  forgive  you,  because  there's  no 
question  of  that.  It's  myself  that  I  can't  forgive.  It 
was  idiotic  of  me  to  try  and  play  a  game  I'm  not  fitted 
for,  and  I'm  ashamed  of  myself.  Isn't  that  enough?" 

"Then  you'll  come  again?"  he  questioned,  as  if  puzzled. 

"No,"  she  said.  "I've  had  my  lesson.  I've  been  silly 
and  wicked;  but  you've  been  worse.  And  you're  still 
being  worse,  you  know.  You're  under-rating  me.  You 
think  I'm  pretending.  You  think  you've  only  got  to  flat- 
ter me  to  find  I'm  no  better  than  .  .  .  the  rest — I  sup- 
pose." She  shrugged.  "I'm  not  pretending.  I'm 
going." 

"I  love  you,"  Monty  told  her.  "You  were  surprised. 
You  were  shocked.  .  .  ."  He  was  still  persisting  in  his 
former  attitude  because  his  imagination  was  not  quick 
enough  to  anticipate  the  changes  of  this  chameleon.  But 
he  was  admiring  her  perhaps  more  than  'he  had  already 
done,  and  finding  her  still  very  desirable. 

"I  was  horrified,"  Patricia  said  slowly.  "But  we're 
not  talking  about  the  same  thing."  She  was  very  serious 
now.  And  the  fact  that  she  was  serious  made  her  again 


284  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

baffling  to  Monty,  who  had  expected  tears  or  reproaches 
or  formal  forgiveness,  and  was  trying  to  discover  some 
new  point  of  contact  which  would  at  least  gain  time. 
Given  time,  he  thought  he  was  always  assured  of  victory ; 
but  he  was  in  a  difficulty.  She  had  changed,  slipping  out 
of  his  power  to  dominate  her;  and  he  had  not  the  key  to 
the  change,  for  that  lay  in  Patricia's  singular  vision. 

"We're  talking  about  .  .  ." 

"No,"  said  Patricia.  "I  came  here  in  a  reckless  state, 
because  I'd  been  very  miserable;  and  you  asked  me  to 
come  because  you  wanted  to  make  love  to  me." 

"And  I  frightened  you,"  said  Monty  quickly.  "Poor 
little  girl!" 

"You  did  me  a  lot  of  good,"  answered  Patricia.  "You 
shocked  me  into  my  senses." 

Monty  stared  at  her,  his  dark  eyes  glowing,  and  his 
face  once  more  alight  with  admiration.  She  saw  him 
moisten  his  lips,  and  saw  his  hands  clenched  by  his  sides. 
But  also,  from  another  point  altogether,  she  heard  a 
faint  incomprehensible  sound.  At  once  she  strained  her 
ears;  but  Monty  had  heard  no  sound,  and  continued  to 
stare  at  her.  The  sound  Patricia  thought  she  had  heard 
was  a  tiny  crunching  of  gravel  outside  the  house.  She 
stared  back  at  Monty,  her  nerves  quivering.  Dread  was 
back  in  her  heart. 

"There's  nothing  to  fear,"  said  Monty,  in  his  level 
voice  of  reassurance.  "I'm  not  going  to  lose  my  head 
again  as  I  did  early  in  the  evening.  I  beg  your  pardon 
for  that."  Patricia  bowed  her  head  again  in  acknowl- 
edgment of  his  apology;  but  she  was  no  longer  heeding 
his  tactical  advances.  As  he  spoke,  her  eyes  were  glanc- 
ing from  Monty  to  the  window.  She  looked  so  slim  and 
fair,  with  the  golden  light  of  the  room  evoking  the  gold 
in  her  hair  and  the  delicate  gleam  of  colour  in  her  cheeks, 
that  Monty  was  moved  anew  as  he  had  been  earlier  in 


THE  VISITOR  285 

the  evening.  He  was  engrossed  in  her,  his  eyes  avid  and 
his  excitement  intense.  "By  God,  you  know,  you're 
beautiful,  Patricia,"  he  whispered.  "Look  here,  we'll 
j>-o  together  to  the  East,  and  you  shall  see  all  those  won- 
ders for  yourself."  She  did  not  seem  to  be  listening. 
Monty  played  his  trump  card.  "We'll  be  married,  d'you 
see,  and  go  straight  to  the  East  together;  and  you  shall 
have  .  .  ." 

In  his  eagerness,  Monty  came  towards  her,  his  hands 
outstretched.  He  was  continuing,  with  increasing  vehe- 
mence, when  Patricia  interrupted  him.  She  would  have 
cried  out  that  what  he  offered  was  unthinkable,  but,  as 
she  made  the  effort  to  speak,  her  eyes  were  caught  by 
something  that  stifled  the  words.  She  could  only  stand 
there,  looking  beyond  Monty,  to  the  doorway,  her  lips 
parted  as  if  in  the  act  of  speech,  her  body  rigid  with 
amazement.  For  there,  just  within  the  room,  silhouetted 
against  the  golden  door,  was  another  person — a  woman, 
heavily  cloaked,  with  the  hood  of  her  dark  cloak  shroud- 
ing her  face,  a  woman  who  had  heard  the  last  speech  as 
she  swiftly  and  silently  opened  the  door,  and  who  stood 
perfectly  white,  as  if  she  were  stone.  Within  the  fold 
of  the  hood  Patricia  saw  two  glittering  eyes.  All  else 
was  white,  ghastly. 

"Really!"  said  the  woman,  in  a  breathless  tone,  as  if 
she  were  stricken  with  illness.  "Monty!" 

It  was  Blanche  Tallentyre. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN -BLANCHE 


SHE  had  seemed  haggard  when  first  Patricia  had 
noticed  her  at  the  September  party,  and  again  upon 
their  second  meeting;  but  now,  in  that  light,  hooded,  and 
in  extremity  of  emotion,  Blanche  was  a  picture  of  un- 
happiness  such  as  Patricia  had  never  known.  The  long 
line  of  her  face  was  sharply  cut  by  the  edge  of  the  dark 
hood;  her  lips  were  a  piteous  thin  gash  of  brilliance,  al- 
most like  a  new  cut ;  her  eyes  were  black  diamonds.  She 
stood  within  the  room,  pressed  back  against  the  door, 
listening  and  watching,  her  bleak  glance  entirely  for 
Monty. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence  after  her  anguished  cry. 
Monty's  outstretched  hands  fell  once  more  to  his  side. 
Patricia  did  not  move:  she  was  too  horrified  to  do  so. 
During  that  instant,  when  even  the  studio  revelry  was 
ignored,  the  hearts  of  all  three  might  have  stopped  beat- 
ing for  all  the  motion  visible.  Then  Patricia  saw  that 
Blanche's  low  breast  was  rising  and  falling  very  quickly, 
and  the  dark  cloak  fell  away  from  her  neck  and  showed 
the  hollows  at  the  base  of  Blanche's  throat.  But  Blanche 
paid  no  heed.  She  was  entirely  absorbed  in  the  moment. 
Only  when  Monty  moved  ever  so  little  towards  her  did 
she  speak. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  anybody  here,"  Blanche  said, 
hoarsely.  "I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  .  .  ."  She  hesi- 
tated, and  with  a  sort  of  dreary  sarcasm  completed  her 
sentence,  ".  .  .  making  a  proposal  of  marriage.  It 

286 


BLANCHE  287 

seems  rather  odd.     I  didn't  .  .  .  expect  it.     I  wonder 
if  you  quite  mean  it.  .  .  ." 

Monty  said  to  Patricia: 

"We're  interrupted,  you  see."  His  shoulders  were  a 
little  raised;  but  his  face  gave  no  sign  of  whatever  emo- 
tion he  might  be  feeling.  With  the  emergency,  he  had 
slipped  back  into  that  unreadable  air  of  reserve  which  at 
first  had  been  for  Patricia  such  a  strong  attraction.  It 
showed,  she  now  knew,  as  much  caution  as  self-control;' 
but  the  silent  person  in  a  quarrel  is  always  at  an  ad- 
vantage. His  head  was  sunk  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
the  heavy  outline  of  his  jaw  was  projected,  as  though 
his  teeth  were  firmly  clenched. 

"I  see  we're  interrupted."  Patricia  took  two  or  three 
steps  towards  the  door.  She  was  still  in  a  state  of  sup- 
pressed excitement,  and  was  half  blind  with  the  con- 
tinued emotional  tension.  "Mrs.  Tallentyre,"  she  said, 
impulsively.  "Monty  didn't  quite  mean  his  proposal  of 
marriage;  but  if  he  had  meant  it  I  shouldn't  have  .  .  . 
taken  it  seriously.  How  d'you  do?" 

For  the  first  time  Blanche  took  notice  of  Patricia. 
She  turned  her  eyes  from  Monty  and  looked  from  Pat- 
ricia's head  to  her  feet,  as  if  with  intent  deliberately  to 
ignore  her.  When  she  spoke  again  her  eyes  were 
averted. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  she  asked  coldly.  She 
was  imperious,  like  a  mistress  who  has  discovered  a  serv- 
ant in  the  act  of  prying. 

"Monty  has  a  party,"  answer  Patricia,  trying  to  con- 
trol her  excitement  and  to  speak  in  an  ordinary  tone. 
"But  I  don't  understand  what  .  .  .  What  is  it  to  do 
with  you?"  In  spite  of  her  effort,  and  perhaps  because 
of  it,  she  found  herself  trembling  with  anger.  "I  don't 
understand  you." 


288  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Blanche  sneered.  A  look  of  contempt  passed  across 
her  face.  The  bitter,  anxious  eyes  darted  at  Patricia  a 
quick  glance  of  scorn. 

"You're  impertinent!"  she  cried,  and  was  again  as  if 
frozen. 

"No,  Blanche.  This  is  really  intolerable,  you  know," 
put  in  Monty,  anger  in  his  own  contemptuous  tone. 
"We're  not  at  the  Lyceum  now.  Patricia  is  here  as  my 
guest." 

"And  you  are  proposing  to  her.  I  interrupted  you. 
I'm  sorry."  Blanche  gave  a  brusque  laugh.  But  she 
did  not  move  from  her  position  at  the  door. 

"And  now  I'm  going,"  said  Patricia.  She  made  as 
if  to  do  so,  but  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  them  in 
uncertainty  that  was  not  without  indignation.  Her  heart 
was  fluttering. 

"No.  You  asked  what  right  I  had  to  .  .  ."  Blanche 
moved  her  arm  stiffly,  and  Patricia  saw  its  wretched 
thinness,  and  the  ugly  bone  at  the  elbow.  "Of  course, 
I  haven't  any  right  ..." 

"You  really  mustn't  make  a  scene,  my  dear  Blanche," 
interposed  Monty.  "It's  quite  out  of  the  piece,  so  to 
speak.  You  interrupted  a  conversation  .  .  ." 

"I  came,  because  I  wanted  to  see  you,  Monty,"  said 
Blanche.  "But  the  conversation  I  interrupted  concerns 
me  very  vitally.  Miss  Quin,  you  may  not  be  to  blame. 
I  can't  tell.  It's  all  so  ...  peculiar.  You're  only  a 
vain  little  fool,  of  course.  But  Monty  has  no  right  to 
offer  you  marriage." 

"I  can  assure  you,'*  answered  Patricia,  with  undesign- 
edly  offensive  coolness  which  arose  from  her  fear  and 
her  effort  at  self-control,  "that  that  doesn't  in  the  least 
matter." 

"And  now,  good-night,  Patricia.     I'll  see  you  to 
door,"  said  Monty, 


BLANCHE  289 

"No!"  Blanche  pressed  back.  "Miss  Quin:  Monty 
and  I  have  quarrelled.  We  quarrelled  here  a  fortnight 
ago,  and  he  has  not  answered  my  letters " 

"My  dear  Blanche!  The  story  of  our  quarrel — " 
Monty  approached,  seizing  Blanche's  arm.  He  could 
quite  easily  have  torn  her  from  the  door  and  made  way 
for  Patricia,  and  that  was  clearly  his  object.  His  hand 
was  to  her  elbow,  and  Blanche  was  already  bent  to  exert 
her  strength  in  resistance.  But  as  Monty's  grip  tight- 
ened, she  said  in  a  very  low  tone : 

"Do  you  want  me  to  scream,  and  bring  the  others? 
Then  let  go  my  arm." 

•    Patricia's    saw    Monty's    teeth    bared,    his    left    fist 
clenched.    And  then  he  stood  back  a  little  way. 

"You're  doing  yourself  no  good,  you  know,"  he  said 
presently,  in  his  caressing  voice.  "Only  harm.  Poor 
fool  that  you  are." 

"Miss  Quin " 

Patricia  spoke  entreatingly.  She  went  closer  to 
Blanche,  her  voice  low  and  her  hands  appealing. 

"Mrs.  Tallentyre,  is  there  any  need  for  me  to  hear? 
I  was  going  when  you  came:  my  one  wish  is  to  go 
now.  You're  mistaken  in  me.  You  needn't  have  any 
thought " 

"Please  let  me  tell  you.  For  a  fortnight  I  have  been 
ill.  I  have  written  to  Monty,  and  he  has  not  answered 
my  letters.  This  afternoon  I  received,  without  a  letter, 
a  thousand  pounds  in  bank-notes.  From  Monty,  you 
understand.  A  thousand  pounds.  It  was  my  solatium. 
I  was  to  take  the  thousand  pounds,  and — good-bye! 
You  understand  that,  also  ?  You're  very  quick." 

During  all  this  time,  Monty  stood  with  his  back  turned 
to  Blanche,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  He  appeared 
not  to  be  listening,  but  to  be  thinking  of  another  matter. 
Such  disregard  was  to  be  expected  of  him ;  but  at  this 


290  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

point  he  showed  that  he  had  been  listening  intently.  He 
wheeled  round  with  angering  insolence,  his  eyes  widely 
opened,  his  head  thrown  back. 

"Oh,"  said  Monty,  as  if  with  surprise.  "You've  come 
to  chaffer!" 

ii 

Blanche  flinched,  and  Patricia — stung  to  loyalty  for 
one  so  helpless  in  face  of  the  power  to  insult — felt  a  sud- 
den outgoing  of  pity  for  her. 

"You  poor  thing!"  she  cried  vehemently.  "You're 
suffering !" 

"Oh,  don't  be  sentimental !"  cried  Blanche,  in  a  harsh, 
impatient  voice.  She  jerked  her  head  in  pain.  "I 
haven't  come  to  chaffer,  and  I've  got  no  use  for  your 
school-girl  sympathy.  Keep  that  for  your  own  wounds. 
I'm  dealing  with  real  things,  as  Monty  will  discover  in  a 
minute.  You,  with  your  silly  baby  face,  haven't  the 
heart  to  understand.  You  .  .  .  But  I'm  forgetting., 
Monty  won't  like  me  to  speak  harshly  to  his  promised 
bride.  He'll " 

"I'm  not!"  shouted  Patricia,  suddenly  out  of  control. 
"I  wouldn't!"  She  was  sparkling  with  temper;  and  yet 
remained  staring  at  Blanche.  Her  feelings  were  in 
tumult — indignation  in  conflict  with  fear,  and  both  with 
pity.  "Nothing  can  keep  me  from  being  sorry  for  you," 
she  said,  "because  you're  unhappy.  I  don't  Hke  you.  I 
don't  like  you.  But  I'm  sorry  for  you." 

"Well,  that's  very  nice,"  drawled  Blanche.  "It's  so 
nice  for  women  to  feel  for  one  another." 

"If  you've  not  come  for  Patricia's  pity,  and  not  come 
to  raise  the  thousand  pounds,  which,  after  all,  is  quite  a 
generous  sum — "  began  Monty. 

"During  all  the  time  we've  known  each  other,  I've 
taken  no  money  from  you,  Monty.  D'you  realise  that? 


BLANCHE  291 

You  couldn't  realise  it !  It's  not  in  your  nature  to  real- 
ise it,  because  you're  avaricious  yourself,  and  find  avari- 
ciousness  .  .  .  Oh,  God  .  .  ."  Blanche's  voice  dropped 
wearily.  "Haven't  I  heard  your  views  of  money  .  .  . 
Don't  I  know  you,  Monty  ?  How  well  I  know  you.  Too 
well!  No,  I  haven't  come  for  money.  I  don't  want  it. 
I  wouldn't  take  money " 

"But,  my  dear,  you  must"  Monty  said.  He  turned 
quickly,  and  came  towards  her,  ignoring  Patricia,  whom 
'he  had  forgotten.  "It's  the  only  thing  I  can  give  you. 
Look,  I'll  make  it  two  thousand.  I  want  to  be  gener- 
•ous " 

"Generous!  My  God!"  whispered  Patricia.  She 
raised  her  hands  in  an  unconscious  gesture.  Was  it 
'really  thus  that  Monty — that  such  men — computed  gen- 
-erosity?  In  guineas?  She  was  distraught. 

"But  it's  no  good  to  think  that  you  and  I  can  go  on," 
Monty  was  continuing.  "We  can't  go  on."  Even  here 
he  was  speaking  slowly  and  deliberately,  in  that  thick, 
'sweet  voice  which  was  so  seldom  raised  beyond  quiet- 
ness. "Our  interest  is  gone.  The  whole  thing's  fin- 
ished, you  know." 

Blanche  looked  at  him,  her  face  drawn,  and  her  lips 
parted  in  a  miserable  smile. 

"Finished,  yes,"  she  said.  "You're  tired  of  me. 
That  I  realise.  I  realised  it  long  ago.  Tant  pis.  But 
it  isn't  finished."  She  shook  her  head.  "Five  years  ago 
I  was  tired  of  Fred.  I  met  you.  Now  you're  tired. 
But  you've  forgotten  Fred." 

"Fred !"  exclaimed  Monty.  "What's  he  got  to  do  with 
it?"  His  voice  was  suddenly  coarse  with  cruelty.  "He 
doesn't  count.  It's  nothing  to  do  with  him." 

"That's  why  I  came,"  said  Blanche,  very  low.  "All 
this  time  Fred's  been  wondering  why  I  didn't  care  for 
.him  .  .  ." 


292  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Look  here,  Blanche,"  said  Monty,  quietly.  "It's  no 
good  to  threaten  me.  You  know  that!" 

o 

"I'm  not  threatening  you,  my  dear/'  returned  Blanche, 
with  a  shudder.  "But  it  seems  that  Fred's  found  a  little 
girl  he  wants  to  marry." 

"Fred!"  cried  Monty.  He  seemed  astounded.  Be- 
hind his  air  of  surprise  his  thoughts  moved  with  the 
speed  of  lightning.  "What  d'you  mean?" 

"Just  that.  You  see,  he's  had  me  watched,"  answered 
Blanche.  "He  says  he's  got  all  he  needs.  So  I've 
brought  you  back  your  money.  He's  vengeful,  Monty. 
He'll  go  for  damages." 

iii 

Patricia  conceived  the  situation.  Blanche,  consumed 
with  that  hot,  wasting  love  which  is  concentrated  upon 
the  fear  of  loss,  watched,  trapped  by  a  husband  as  un- 
scrupulous as  herself;  Monty,  at  first  passionate,  as  he 
had  been  with  Patricia  herself,  and  with  more  success, 
with  his  love  tiring,  bent  upon  extrication,  also  watched, 
trapped;  herself,  a  spectator,  half-guilty  as  the  result  of 
foolish  recklessness,  trapped  here,  but  possessing  the 
power  of  flight.  She  could  escape,  and  would  eventually 
do  so ;  but  there  was  no  escape  for  Blanche.  There  was 
none,  perhaps,  for  Monty.  Ugly  love,  ugly  renuncia- 
,  tion,  and  a  squalid  sequel ;  and  what  then !  No  hope  for 
.Blanche !  Nothing  for  that  poor,  haggard  woman  with 
the  ugly  elbows  and  the  glittering  wretched  eyes  of  a 
dumb  creature  in  pain.  There  was  even  no  future  for 
her.  Patricia  was  appalled.  And  Monty's  clumsy  at- 
tempt— so  grossly  insensitive — to  close  the  intrigue  with 
money.  .  .  .  Why  had  he  chosen  this  way?  A  quarrel 
there  had  been,  a  parting,  some  coarse-grained  assump- 
tion and  deliberate  plan  to  make  the  parting  "equitable" 


BLANCHE  293 

and  final.  He  must  have  had  some  urgent  reason.  Her- 
self ?  Monty  gave  a  jeering  laugh. 

"Well,  done,  Fred,"  he  said  quietly.  And  then,  after 
a  pause:  "And  where's  his  evidence?  He's  bluffing, 
Blanche." 

"You  say  that  .  .  ."  Blanche  contemptuously  an- 
swered. "He's  not  bluffing,  Monty.  He's  got  an  ob- 
ject. I  know.  And  it  isn't  money.  It's  the  little  girl." 

"But,  good  God,  what's  that  to  do  with  me?"  de- 
manded Monty.  "Or,  for  that  matter,  with  you  ?  Noth- 
ing. Nothing  whatever.  Any  little  girl,  at  Fred's  age, 
isn't  going  to  be  particularly  squeamish  about  marriage. 
You've  only  to  look  at  Fred,  too.  She  must  be  out  for 
what  she  can  get.  Oh,  no,  it's  absurd.  Take  it  from 
me,  Blanche,  he's  bluffing !" 

While  Patricia,  more  impressed  than  ever,  was  filled 
with  consternation  at  this  inside  glimpse  of  the  working 
of  Monty's  mind,  Blanche  sighed.  Perhaps  it  was  no 
revelation  to  her?  Were,  then,  all  people  at  bottom 
coarse,  cynical?  Was  she  herself?  Patricia  recoiled 
from  a  question.  Again  she  had  the  sense  of  comparing 
those  anxious,  ghastly  eyes  to  the  eyes  of  a  monkey, 
which  seem  to  hold  all  misery,  and  anxiously  to  survey 
a  treacherous  and  sophisticated  and  bewildering  world. 
So  might  her  own  eyes  have  looked  if  they  had  indeed, 
at  this  moment,  mirrored  her  dread. 

"You'll  see,"  at  last  Blanche  answered  quietly,  after  a 
moment's  pause. 

Monty  shrugged  his  shoulders.  He  was  not  so  ob- 
stinate in  his  belief  as  his  speech  made  him  appear.  Al- 
ready he  was  searching  in  his  memory  for  occasions,  for 
details,  for  possible  spies.  An  idea  occurred  to  him. 

"Jacobs?"  he  asked.     "Impossible." 

Blanche    shook   her   head.     Patricia,    watching   her, 


294.  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

thought  she  was  paler.  The  brilliant  lips  were  hardly 
parted  as  she  spoke. 

"Nothing's  impossible,"  answered  Blanche,  drawing 
her  breath  quickly. 

Monty  looked  at  her  with  sudden  attention.  Suspi- 
cion darted  to  his  eyes. 

"You?"  he  cried.  "Not  you,  Blanche?"  His  face 
had  crimsoned.  Again  Blanche  slowly  shook  her  head. 

"Nothing's  impossible,"  she  repeated. 


IV 

It  was  then  only  that  she  took  further  notice  of  Patri- 
cia, to  whom  she  made  a  slight  ironic  inclination  of  the 
head.  While  Monty  stood  with  that  brooding  glance  of 
suspicion  still  directed  upon  her,  his  doubt,  once  awak- 
ened not  easily  to  be  dispelled,  Blanche  opened  the  door. 

"You  want  to  go,  don't  you?"  she  said.     "Well,  you 
can  go  now.     We  shall  get  along  better  without  you 
now.     I  hope  you've  been  edified.     You've  seen  Monty, 
and  you've  seen  me,  and  you've  learnt  quite  a  lot  that  you 
won't  be  able  to  repeat.     It'll  do  you  good.     You  once, 
said  that  the  world  was  full  of  women  who  had  found  j 
out  too  late.     I  wish  that  you  could  be  one  of  them.    If 
should  enjoy  it.     Now  go." 

Patricia,  in  silence,  passed  from  the  room,  and  into 
the  hall;  and  the  door  was  closed  again.  Monty  had 
not  spoken.  She  was  alone  in  the  hall,  which  rose  lofty 
and  spacious  above  her  head  to  a  painted  ceiling,  the 
whole  in  a  brilliant  blue.  Around  the  ceiling  ran  a  strip 
of  shaded  light,  the  reflection  of  which  made  the  hall's 
illumination.  The  walls  were  hung  with  thick  brilliant 
curtains  which  deadened  all  sound,  and  thick  rugs  lay 
along  the  polished  parquet  flooring.  Only  by  the  door 
stood  a  single  small  piece  of  statuary,  a  reproduction  of 


BLANCHE  295 

a  classic  fragment.  There  seemed  to  be  a  stifling  heavi- 
ness in  the  air,  as  of  scent,  so  much  had  she  been  affected 
by  the  late  scenes.  Patricia  paused  here  as  one  in  a 
dream,  bowed  and  trembling,  but  with  emotion  that  was 
new  to  her.  She  was  no  longer  afraid  or  angry;  but  she 
was  pierced  through  and  through  with  the  longing  for 
contact  with  something  unquestionably  clean. 

She  had  reached  the  heavy  front  door.  Her  hand  was 
outstretched  to  the  catch.  And  then  she  hesitated.  This 
poignant  desire  was  irresistible.  It  was  the  longing  to  be 
assoiled.  Only  by  such  contact  could  she  recover  purity, 
could  she  be  at  peace.  Memory  flashed  a  thought  into 
Patricia's  mind.  With  a  glance  across  her  shoulder,  a 
hasty  step  to  the  wide  staircase,  a  pause  for  intent  listen- 
ing, she  ran  back  into  the  room  from  which  she  had  a 
short  time  before  taken  her  hat  and  coat. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN:  NIGHT  CALL 


AT  his  desk  that  day,  Edgar  had  worked  loyally  to 
keep  his  attention  concentrated  upon  matters  in 
hand.  He  had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  excluding 
private  concerns  from  his  mind  during  business  hours; 
and  even  here,  owing  to  determination  and  practice,  he 
was  partly  successful.  He  did  not  consciously  think  of 
Patricia  while  he  was  reading  and  dictating  letters,  while 
he  was  talking  to  several  exacting  visitors,  while  he  tele- 
phoned, and  even  while  he  lunched  in  company  with  other 
business  men.  He  made  no  attempt  to  be  alone  or  to  be 
in  company.  It  was  not  apparent  to  any  of  those  who 
dealt  with  him  that  day  that  he  was  otherwise  than  as 
usual — competent,  friendly,  and  benevolently  unshake- 
able  in  decision.  And  yet  the  secret  Edgar,  the  unsus- 
pected Edgar,  the  Edgar  who  was  Hamlet,  was  ex- 
tremely disturbed.  This  Edgar  was  faced  with  a  crisis. 
He  was  angry.  He  was  angry  and  exasperated  and 
broken-hearted.  But  he  was  much  more  angry  and 
exasperated  than  he  was  broken-hearted.  And  in  the 
middle  of  his  emotions,  this  secret  Edgar  was  engaged 
in  the  preposterous  act  of  laughing. 

The  secret  Edgar  was,  in  fact,  a  little  boy  who  had 
never  grown  up;  but  he  concealed  this  from  everybody, 
and  it  was  supposed  that  he  did  not  exist.  Therefore  the 
really  grown-up  persons  in  Edgar's  office — such  as  his 
typist  and  his  junior  clerks  and  his  shipping  clerks — had 
a  feeling  of  superiority  to  him  which  was  mingled  with 
their  feeling  of  respect.  They  all  thought,  privately, 

296 


NIGHT  CALL  297 

how  imaginative  they  were,  in  being  able  to  enjoy  books 
and  plays  which  contained  whimsical  notions,  and  how 
completely  a  business  man  Edgar  was.  And  this  secret 
Edgar,  who  lost  his  temper  and  raged  and  roared  with 
merriment  in  the  middle  of  his  own  furies,  was  like  a 
little  boy  who  had  been  angry  and  cannot  keep  on  being 
angry  because  everybody  else,  so  amused,  is  trying  to 
remain  grave.  The  secret  Edgar  was  unsuspected  by 
those  around  the  outward  Edgar;  and  Edgar  lived  so 
entirely  in  the  secret  Edgar  that  he  never  knew  that  there 
was  any  other  Edgar  at  all.  It  never  entered  his  head  to 
suppose  that  there  were  two  Edgars — outside  and  inside, 
as  it  were, — and  as  the  serious  Edgar  had  a  day's  work 
to  do,  the  secret  Edgar  made  no  attempt  to  interfere. 
The  day's  work  was  done ;  the  last  letter  was  signed ;  and 
Edgar — the  composite  Edgar — the  physical  Edgar — was 
at  length  free  to  abandon  himself  to  anger  and  exaspera- 
tion and  broken  heart  and  laughter.  He  put  his  hat  un- 
emotionally upon  his  head,  and  carefully  threaded  him- 
self into  his  overcoat;  and  then  he  left  the  office,  and 
was  out  in  the  darkness  and  traffic  of  the  City  of  London. 
Night  in  the  City  of  London,  on  a  week-day,  is  as  re- 
markable and  as  romantically  bizarre  as  night  in  some 
such  centre  of  the  engineering  industry  as  Barrow-in- 
Furness,  where  the  tipping  of  molten  slag  and  the  blaz- 
ing sky-reflections  of  many  furnaces  compose  miraculous 
effects  for  the  sensitive.  As  Edgar  stepped  out  into  the 
cold  air,  thousands  of  people  were  making  the  sidewalks 
impassable,  and  pressing  out  into  the  asphalted  road- 
ways, and  jostling  and  going  self-absorbed  to  every  point 
of  the  compass.  Many  vehicles  were  joined  in  the  gen- 
eral hustle  and  congestion;  cabs,  omnibuses,  postal-vans, 
and  the  like,  all  flashed  their  way  through  the  crowds. 
Deafening  noises  filled  the  ears.  Lights  and  shadows 
fought  desperately  their  incessant  battle.  Boys  and 


298  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

young  men  carrying  waste-paper  baskets  full  of  letters, 
or  piles  of  parcels  which  extended  from  their  waists  to 
their  chins,  or  bundles  carried  fore  and  aft  across  their 
bent  shoulders,  staggered  from  all  directions;  others  ran, 
doubling  in  and  out  among  the  foot-passengers  and  the 
vehicles,  unburdened,  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  their 
little  black  hats  pressed  down  upon  their  ears,  or  their 
little  cheap  soft  felt  hats  cocked  askew  with  impudent 
carelessness.  Others  again  wore  no  hats  at  all,  but 
swung  along  bare-headed  and  short-coated  even  in  the 
chilly  evening  breeze.  High  above  the  streets  were  globes 
of  white  light,  which  hung  centrally,  without  standards 
to  support  them.  And  in  these  narrow  streets,  in  the 
white,  fizzing  lights,  amid  the  close-running  traffic,  with 
this  noise  and  helter-skelter  rushing  to  catch  posts  and 
trains  and  omnibuses  dinning  into  his  ears  and  dazzling 
his  eyes  and  bewildering  his  senses,  the  secret  Edgar 
found  himself  sensibly  exhilarated.  It  was  quite  dark, 
and  the  sky  was  invisible.  Somewhere  beyond  the 
crowd  and  the  lights,  and  beyond  the  overhanging  murk, 
it  lay;  to  be  guessed  and  known,  but  never  to  be  seen. 
He  had  worked  well  all  day.  He  was  contented  with 
the  way  in  which  various  transactions  in  which  he  was 
engaged  were  progressing.  And  only  one  thing  in  all  the 
world  caused  him  distress;  and  yet  that  one  thing,  so  all- 
important,  out-weighed  every  complacency  and  every 
other  care.  It  was  a  preoccupation.  It  was  Patricia. 

Because  of  Patricia,  Edgar  was  angry  and  exasper- 
ated and  broken-hearted.  Because  of  Patricia,  he  was 
shaken  with  preposterous  laughter. 

•  • 

11 

Within  an  hour  he  was  indoors,  in  that  house  in  Ken- 
sington where  Patricia  had  realised  what  the  word 


NIGHT  CALL  299 

"home"  might  mean.  The  house  was  still;  the  servants 
were  quiet-footed  and  the  carpets  were  thick.  Doors, 
well-made  and  heavy,  closed  gently  and  remained  closed, 
without  rattling.  Even  Pulcinella  was  subdued  by  even- 
tide, except  upon  the  arrival  of  a  member  of  the  family 
much  beloved.  Then  no  amount  of  custom  could  stale 
the  little  dog's  rapture.  Edgar  admitted  himself,  and 
washed,  and  went  down  to  the  brown  room  upon  the 
mezzanine  floor  which  was  his  own  room,  where  there 
was  a  fire,  and  where  books  upon  white-enamelled  shelves 
warmed  the  walls  from  floor  to  ceiling  and  made  ..them 
cordially  glow  with  companionship.  He  had  :an  hour 
before  dinner,  an  hour  in  which  to  vent  his  anger  and 
exasperation,  in  which  to  contemplate  his  broken  heart. 
And  when  he  reached  the  room  he  spent  his  hour  in  do-> 
ing  none  of  these  things.  He  sat  instead  and  tried  to 
decide  what  he  was  going  to  do  about  Patricia.  For  he 
had  now  definitely  made  up  his  mind  that  Patricia  was 
to  be  won.  No  young  woman  is  so  ostentatiously  de- 
cided when  she  has  in  fact  made  up  her  mind. 

At  the  same  time,  Patricia  was  a  mystery  to  Edgar. 
He  could  have  named  her  traits  with  scarcely  a  grievous 
error  in  observation;  but,  this  done,  she  would  still  have 
been  a  mystery.  A  man  who  behaved  as  she  was  ob- 
viously in  the  habit  of  behaving  could  have  had  no  inter- 
est for  Edgar.  If  he  had  not  loved  Patricia  he  would 
have  found  her  insufferable.  But  he  loved  her.  The 
secret  Edgar — who  was  all  heart — loved  her;  the  out- 
ward Edgar  merely  received  impressions  of  her.  The 
impressions  might  constantly  be  disagreeable — some  of 
them  were  wholly  disagreeble ; — but  they  slipped  into  the 
heart  of  the  secret  Edgar,  which  was  big  enough  to  hold 
them  all.  And  it  was  this  secret  Edgar  who  conned  the 
mystery,  with  rather  more  humour  than  the  outward 
Edgar  was  always  supposed  to  possess.  Which  explains 


300  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

why  Edgar's  ruminations  were  interrupted  by  laughter 
— not  loud,  hearty,  hopelessly  solemn  laughter;  but 
laughter  that  was  a  catching  of  the  breath,  explosive,  and 
then  silent. 

"She  is  the  most  preposterous  creature  that  ever  lived," 
said  Edgar.  "The  most  conceited,  blind,  ridiculous  little 
fathead.  .  .  ." 

He  would  not  have  dared  to  communicate  this  view  of 
Patricia  to  anybody  alive.  He  would  not  have  dared  to 
mention  it  even  to  Claudia.  Even  to  hint  the  smallest 
part  of  it  to  Patricia  herself  would  have  been  the  act  of 
a  madman.  And  yet  to  himself  Edgar  was  frank  and 
fair  about  it.  Because  Edgar  knew  that  when  he  said 
or  thought  such  a  thing  every  word  was  qualified  and 
softened  by  an  emotion  in  himself  towards  the  object  of 
his  laughter  which  was  without  comparison  the  most 
precious  thing  in  his  life. 

iii 

Presently  he  heard  the  telephone  bell  ringing  down- 
stairs, and  as  he  was  not  sure  that  Claudia  was  in,  and 
as  Mrs.  Mayne  was  almost  as  ridiculous  on  the  telephone 
as  her  husband,  who  invariably  rang  off  while  he  went 
to  find  somebody  less  incompetent,  Edgar  walked  out  of 
the  room.  The  bell  had  ceased  ringing;  but  he  pro- 
ceeded as  far  as  the  clothes-cupboard  where  it  was  in- 
stalled, on  the  chance  that  the  answerer  might  not  be 
Claudia.  It  was  she,  however.  As  Edgar  put  his  head 
inside  the  clothes-cupboard  she  was  saying  "Hold  on," 
and  she  turned  as  if  to  leave  the  cupboard  in  search  of 
somebody  who  was  wanted. 

"Oh,  there  you  are,"  said  Claudia.  "I  didn't  know 
you  were  in.  It's  Mr.  Gaythorpe." 

Edgar  took  the  receiver  from  his  sister's  hand.  Old 
Gaythorpe  was  one  of  those  rare  people  who  speak  as 


NIGHT  CALL  301 

clearly  on  the  telephone  as  they  would  speak  in  a  room. 
Every  word  he  said  was  audible.  Edgar  could  imagine 
the  old  man  present.  The  dry  wisdom  of  his  manner 
was  in  an  extraordinary  degree  conveyed  by  the  sound 
of  his  voice. 

"Look  here,  young  man,"  said  Gaythorpe.  "I've  been 
kept  here  by  importunate  suitors.  My  train  has  gone. 
I  want  to  see  you.  Can  I  come  to  dinner?" 

"Of  course!"  cried  Edgar,  foolhardy  in  giving  such 
encouragement  without  consultation  with  the  kitchen, 
but  relying  upon  Mayne  ingenuity  to  expand  a  meal  at 
short  notice. 

"I'll  take  what  Mrs.  Mayne  gives  me,"  the  voice  con- 
tinued, the  voice  of  an  experienced  family  man.  "Right. 
I'll  come  along." 

Edgar  flung  up  the  receiver.  He  turned  to  Claudia, 
who  was  leaning  pensively  against  the  doorpost,  waiting 
to  hear  the  worst. 

"He's  coming  to  dinner." 

"Gracious!"  exclaimed  Claudia,  blanching.  "I  must 
see  mother!  We've  got  one  guest  already — Olivia 
Stephens."' 

"Oh,  do  you  know  her?"  said  Edgar,  surprised.  He 
was  familiar  with  the  name;  but  he  could  not  at  first 
discover  in  what  connection. 

"School  with  her,"  called  Claudia,  hurrying  away. 
"Known  her  all  my  life.  So  have  you.  Come  and  talk 
to  her." 

It  was  evidently  to  be  a  bright  evening.  Edgar  fol- 
lowed, trying  to  remember  Olivia  Stephens,  and  to  recall 
what  he  knew  of  her.  There  came  back  to  his  mind  a 
picture  of  a  girl  who  came  to  see  Claudia  in  bygone  days, 
a  girl  with  a  long  plait  of  hair  and  very  arched  brows 
and  a  freckled  snub  nose;  of  an  older  girl  with  her  hair 
up,  who  had  not  very  much  to  say  for  herself;  of  a 


302  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

young  creature  who  flaunted  a  shapeless  olive-green  frock 
down  the  cobbled  street  of  a  Cornish  fishing  village, 
•attended  by  an  amiable  fellow  in  a  reddish-brown  Nor- 
folk suit,  bearing  a  black-bowled  pipe  and  a  cudgel. 
This  picture,  which  wavered  and  sharpened  in  its  suc- 
cessive stages,  like  a  series  of  kinema  close-ups,  recalled 
Olivia  to  his  experience.  She  was  the  girl  who  had  mar- 
ried an  artist — the  Norfolk-jacketed  young  man  with  the 
pipe;  upon  whose  behalf  Edgar  had  been  persuaded  to 
buy  some  water-colour  drawings  which  hung  in  his 
mother's  bedroom.  What  was  it  about  her? — poor, 
artist-husband — cheerful — ah,  babies!  Olivia  was  the 
girl  who  had  the  two  babies !  The  girl  of  his  ideal !  She 
it  was  of  whom  Claudia  had  given  accounts  which  had 
filled  him  with  admiring  approval.  Edgar  was  tri- 
umphant at  his  own  instinct  for  clues  and  associations. 
It  came  into  his  head  that  he  had  seen  vague  resem- 
blances to  Olivia  and  the  young  artist  at  Monty's  Sep- 
tember party.  Of  course!  He  had  not  spoken  to  her, 
because  his  memory  had  been  too  vague ;  but  now  he  was 
clear.  The  girl  he  had  seen  must  indeed  have  been 
Olivia;  and  her  artistic  husband  must  have  been  the  link 
with  Monty  and  the  aesthetes.  They  were  the  young 
people  who  were  still  in  love  with  each  other.  He  could 
recall  their  happiness.  Even  in  recollection  Edgar  was 
pleased  with  them. 

"Babies,"  he  ejaculated  recognisingly  to  himself.  He 
entered  the  sitting-room  with  the  anticipation  of  interest; 
but  with  a  certain  sinking  of  the  heart  lest  Olivia  should 
be  restricted  to  a  single  topic. 

iv 

"How  are  you,  Edgar  ?"  asked  Olivia.  She  sat  by  the 
fire  in  the  blue-grey  drawing-room ;  and  there  was  work 


NIGHT  CALL  303 

in  her  hands.  The  work  was  obviously  a  garment  for 
a  small  child.  He  recognised  her  at  once  by  the  well- 
arched  eyebrows,  and  by  the  fact  that  she  wore — as  in 
his  first  vision — a  dress  which  was  olive-green  in  colour. 
The  freckles  were  banished  (whether  by  the  season,  or 
by  some  more  permanent  cure,  he  could  not  tell) ;  but 
the  calm,  innocent  eyes  and  odd  little  nose  were  much 
as  he  remembered  them  to  have  been.  Her  shoulders 
were  broader,  and  her  breast  had  developed.  Otherwise 
she  was  the  agreeable  creature  he  had  known,  between 
fair  and  dark,  with  plump  arms  and  legs  and  a  lot  of 
fair  hair.  She  had  a  very  sweet  lazy  smile,  and  an  un- 
self -conscious  manner  which  came  of  not  taking  herself 
very  seriously.  She  was  about  twenty-six.  Theoretically, 
Edgar  knew,  Olivia  was  his  ideal  type  of  woman.  She 
gave  love  with  the  eager  readiness  of  the  trustful  child; 
she  spoke  quietly  and  seldom,  but  without  constraints; 
she  had  courage  and  patience  and  unselfishness.  And  he 
was  in  love  with  her  opposite.  One  more  insoluble 
problem. 

"How  are  you?"  he  answered.  "And  how's  .  .  .  er, 
Stephens?"  Then,  with  the  proud  feeling  of  taking  his 
fences  :  "And  how  are  the  babies  ?" 

"How  nice  of  you  to  ask  about  them!"  said  Olivia, 
comfortably,  with  her  slow,  happy,  lazy  smile.  "Joan 
isn't  very  grand.  She's  got  a  cold.  That  makes  her  just 
a  little  trying  and  sentimental  at  the  moment.  But 
Michael  is  tremendously  hefty,  and  already  weighs  about 
ten  stone.  He's  a  sort  of  prize  ox.  In  fact  Mercy — 
Peter's  sister — says  he's  not  like  a  baby  at  all,  but  like 
a  beautiful  white  calf.  You  haven't  seen  either  of  them, 
I  expect,  though  Claudia  has.  Joan's  three;  and 
Michael's  just  over  a  year,  and  walks  well.  Look  here, 
you  ought  to  come  and  see  them.  They'd  do  you  good. 
You  must  be  getting  quite  middle-aged,  Edgar.  Yes,  I 


304-  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

can  see  you  are.  You  ought  to  have  children  of  your 
own.  Then  you  wouldn't  have  time  to  grow  old.  Come 
and  see  them,  will  you?" 

"This  conversation  is  going  to  be  extremely  indelicate 
and  extremely  rude,  I  can  see,"  replied  Edgar.  "I  begin 
already  to  remember  you  as  an  excessively  rude  and, 
indelicate  girl  in  a  pigtail.  I  am  not  middle-aged,  and 
I  don't  look  as  though  I  were  middle-aged.  So  that's 
finished.  As  to  the  babies,  I  will  come.  I  ought  to  have 
come  before;  but  I  had  forgotten  all  about  you.  When 
Claudia  said  you  were  here  I  had  really  to  recall  who 
you  were.  How  is  it  you  never  come  to  see  us  ?  Or  do 
you  come,  secretly  ?" 

Olivia  grimaced. 

"I  go  out  very  little.  The  babies,  you  see.  Michael 
needs  somebody  still — they  both  need  somebody  to  put 
them  to  bed;  and  Michael  sometimes  yells  for  me.  I'm. 
only  out  this  evening  because  Peter's  sister  is  staying 
with  us.  Peter's  coming  for  me  later  on.  He  couldn't 
come  to  dinner,  because  he's  finishing  some  work." 

"Painting?" 

Olivia  shook  her  head,  a  little  ruefully. 

"Black-and-white.  He's  got  some  regular  work  to  do 
at  last.  So  things  are  looking  up  with  us.  We're  be- 
ginning to  save.  He  wants  us  to  go  and  live  in  the 
country  somewhere — not  too  far  away — for  the  sake  of 
the  babies ;  and  we  shall  do  that  next  year  if  we  can  get 
a  cottage." 

"But  would  you  like  that?  Wouldn't  it  be  dull  for 
you?"  asked  Edgar. 

Olivia  shook  her  head  again,  this  time  without  any 
ruefulness  at  all. 

"Nothing  could  be  duller  than  London,"  she  said. 
"Besides,  if  we  had  a  nurse,  Peter  and  I  could  always 
come  up  to  town  for  an  evening.  One  consequence  of 


NIGHT  CALL  305 

being  rich  would  be  a  nurse;  and  that  would  mean  lots 
of  liberty,  with  the  right  girl.  We  shouldn't  go  any- 
where quite  in  the  wilds.  And  it  isn't  as  though  Joan 
would  need  a  school  just  yet.  She's  got  another  three 
years  before  she  need  go.  The  great  thing  is  for  them 
to  be  able  to  play  out-of-doors." 

Edgar  nodded,  much  impressed  by  this  notion  of  life. 

"Would  you  be  happier?"  he  asked. 

"I  ?"  cried  Olivia.  "I  couldn't  be.  I  seem  to  have  got 
everything  I  want." 

Edgar  stared  meditatively  at  this  remarkable  woman. 

"You're  very  fortunate,"  he  said,  drily.  And  then: 
"You're  very  rare."  f » 


With  dinner  came  the  other  guest,  cynically  benevolent 
as  ever;  and  the  table  in  the  big  old-fashioned  dining- 
room  was  a  full  one.  At  it  there  were  three  elderly 
people  and  three  young  ones;  and,  as  if  naturally,  all  the 
talking  which  was  not  done  by  Mrs.  Mayne  took  place 
between  Claudia  and  old  Gaythorpe.  They  sparred  on 
the  best  of  terms,  because  there  was  a  very  pleasant  feel- 
ing between  them,  and  they  were  like  partners  in  a  game 
,who  knew  each  other's  play.  Mr.  Mayne  sat  with  fierce 
dignity  at  one  end  of  the  table,  high  above  the  heat  of 
vbattle;  and  his  wife,  placidly  nimble  of  brain,  at  the 
'other,  absorbed  in  it.  Olivia  blissfully  enjoyed  her 
dinner  in  a  home-made  frock,  with  hands  that  were  red- 
dened by  house-work,  and  an  inner  happiness  which 
caused  her  to  accept  every  kindness  with  glee.  Edgar, 
lazily  listening  to  Claudia  in  combat  with  his  old  friend, 
was  content  to  leave  the  conversation  to  them.  And 
Claudia,  who  was  full  of  spirits,  was  being  agile  and 
aggressive;  and  old  Gaythorpe  was  in  his  own  dry  way 
oeing  equally  agile  and  aggressive.  The  motto  of  each 


306  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

was  the  same :  "Never  give  your  adversary  a  moment's 
peace." 

"You  seem  to  think  that  income  tax  is  the  only  tax 
there  is!"  cried  Claudia.  "It's  the  rich  man's  tax,  and 
always  will  be.  If  you  were  poor,  and  paid  your  taxation 
indirectly — " 

"I  do  that  as  well,  my  dear  Claudia.  My  sugar  costs 
me—" 

"Neither  your  sugar  nor  your  coal!"  she  retorted. 

"Indeed,  yes." 

"Our  sugar  doesn't.  Nor  our  tea.  Nor  our  coal.  We 
buy  in  bulk.  If  you  don't  escape,  it's  by  bad  buying. 
vWe  have  tons  of  coal.  Poor  people  buy  in  quarter- 
hundredweights,  and  pay  fifty  per  cent  more.  A  ha'porth 
of  jam — you  can't  get  ha'porths  now,  as  it  happens — 
multiplied  many  times  makes  much  more  a  pot  than  you 
pay.  Every  necessary  costs  more." 

"Is  jam  a  necessary?     I  never  eat  it." 

"Your  pampered  children  do." 

"Ah,  my  children.  Yes.  .  .  .  Pampered  indeed.  I 
agree.  The  younger  generation,  of  course.  Take  the 
cost  of  education,  Claudia.  What  have  I  paid  in  school 
fees?" 

"If  the  Council  schools  are  all  you  say,  they'd  have 
been  quite  adequate." 

"Your  own  dexterity  isn't  the  fruit  of  the  Council 
school,"  parried  Gaythorpe. 

"No;  it's  my  own!"  cried  Claudia. 

"Claudia,  dear,"  objected  Mrs.  Mayne.  "Your  father 
and  I  can  hardly  be  called  ordinary  people." 

They  all  laughed  at  this  simple  interruption.  Claudia 
was  instantly  deflated.  She  turned  to  Olivia. 

"Are  you  going  to  give  your  babies  any  education?" 
she  demanded. 

"Well,"  said  Olivia.     "Peter  doesn't  think  ordinary 


NIGHT  CALL  307 

education  is  much  good.  He  thinks  it  just  spoils  chil- 
dren to  be  taught  by  rote.  But  then  he  thinks  that  better 
education  only  teaches  them  to  spend  money — not  to 
make  it.  He  was  at  a  public  school  himself." 

"And  is  he  well-educated?"  pressed  Claudia. 

"Oh,  he  ...  of  course,  he  knows  a  lot.  But  it  isn't 
very  precise  knowledge.  He  can't  spell:  he's  never  sure 
about  words  like  'separate'  or  'receipt.'  He's  not  very 
good  at  figures.  I  have  to  do  the  sums  as  a  rule;  but 
then  of  course  that's  just  knack." 

"Yes,  and  there's  another  thing!"  Claudia,  reminded 
by  Olivia's  admission  as  to  figures,  returned  to  her  direct 
challenge.  "Women !"  ^ 

There  was  a  general  groan. 

"He's  very  unsound  there,"  interjected  Edgar,  cheer- 
fully. "You'd  better  go  no  further." 

"By  the  way,  Olivia."  Claudia  was  diverted  from  her 
argument.  "Have  you  ever  met  an  awful  girl — an  artist 
— called  Amy  Roberts?" 

"O-oh!"  exclaimed  Olivia,  in  disgust.  "Where  on 
earth  did  you  meet  her?" 

"At  Patricia's— Patricia  Quin's." 

"Such  a  nice  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Mayne,  aside  to  Gay- 
thorpe.  "A  friend  of  Edgar's." 

Instantly  Gaythorpe  shot  a  glance  of  inexpressible 
malice  at  Edgar. 

"Indeed,"  he  said,  politely.  There  was  benign  poison 
in  his  encouraging  tone.  He  beamed  upon  Mrs.  Mayne, 
hoping  for  further  information  about  Edgar's  friend, 
immediately  recalling  the  Miss  Fly-away  of  their  con- 
versation. 

"Patricia  Quin?"  repeated  Olivia,  doubtfully.     "Oh, 
a  fair  girl — .     Isn't  she  Harry  Greenlees's  mistress?" 
"Nb."     Edgar  did  not  hear  himself  speak. 


308  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Who  told  you  that?"  indignantly  cried  Claudia.  "It's 
scandalous !" 

Olivia,  disconcerted,  tried  to  remember  the  name  of 
her  informant.  The  general  distress  was  so  obvious  that 
she  slightly  reddened. 

"Wait  a  minute/'  she  said.  "I'm  sorry  if  I've  said 
something  I  ought  not  to.  I  thought  there  wasn't  any 
question  about  it.  I  think  it  was  Blanche  Tallentyre  who 
told  Peter." 

"Well,  it's  not  true !"  cried  Claudia.  "What  a  beast 
Blanche  Tallentyre  must  be.  Have  you  ever  met  her, 
Edgar?" 

Edgar,  deeply  moved,  was  staring  at  the  table,  his  face 
J:ern.  All  their  eyes  were  upon  him.  He  had  a  remem- 
bered glimpse  of  an  unhappy-looking  woman  across  a 
dinner-table,  of  lips  parted  to  speak,  of  a  speech  checked 
and  an  enmity  formed  in  a  single  instant. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  slowly.  "At  Monty's.  Patricia 
was  rude  to  her.  That's  the  explanation.  Not  delib- 
erately rude,  but  wounding.  I  saw  that  she  felt  vicious 
about  it.  But  surely  you  don't  accept  anything  she  might 
say  as  probable,  Olivia?" 

"Perhaps  not,"  Olivia  agreed.  "No:  she  isn't  a  nice 
.woman.  I  suppose  there's  no  doubt  that  she's  Monty's 
>  mistress,  herself." 

,  "Dear,  dear!"  protested  Mrs.  Mayne.  "It  seems  so 
horrible  to  have  that  word  bandied  about  by  nice  young 
girls.  It's  such  a  pity.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Gay- 
ithorpe?" 

"I  quite  agree  with  you,  Mrs.  Mayne,"  said  the  old 
man.  "A  great  pity.  A  very  great  pity.  And  who — " 
he  paused,  speaking  across  the  table  to  Edgar.  "Who 
is  Monty?" 

"Monty  Rosenberg."    It  was  a  chorus. 

"Indeed.     And  is  he  a  friend  of  yours,  Edgar?" 


NIGHT  CALL  309 

Edgar's  eyes  met  those  of  his  tormentor  very  candidly 
across  the  table. 

"Perhaps  one  could  hardly  call  him  a  friend,"  he 
suavely  replied. 

"Ah,"  said  Gaythorpe.     "Perhaps  a  debtor?" 

No  reply  was  returned  to  his  question,  which  had  been 
hardly  audible.  Gaythorpe  bit  his  lower  lip.  The  rims 
of  his  glasses  caught  the  light  as  he  glanced  aside.  He 
was  not,  perhaps,  altogether  certain;  but  he  thought  he 
had  made  a  very  fair  guess  at  the  answers  to  two  ques- 
tions which  for  some  time  had  been  troubling  him.  He 
wondered  whether  Monty  had  ever  asked  for  Edgar's 
help,  and  whether  Patricia  had  ever  refused  it.  ... 


VI 


Although  Edgar  had  so  immediately  denied  the  asser- 
tion that  Patricia  was  Harry's  mistress,  Olivia's  words 
caused  him  suffering  so  poignant  that  he  could  hardly 
maintain  composure  under  the  scrutiny  of  the  party.  He 
had  to  admit  his  own  jealousy  of  Harry,  and  he  was 
also  made  to  remember  Patricia's  claim  to  wickedness, 
and  Claudia's  terrible  questions  at  the  breakfast-table. 
Together  they  made  a  hateful  collection  of  poisonous 
thoughts.  Although  he  now  answered  when  he  was  ad- 
dressed, he  did  so  with  his  mind  far  away.  He  could 
not  eat;  he  could  not  think.  His  one  impulse  was  to  get 
away  from  this  table,  from  these  people,  in  order  that 
he  might  be  alone.  All  the  anger  and  all  the  laughter 
which  had  shaken  him  earlier  in  the  evening  were  ban- 
ished. He  did  not  believe  the  suggestions  which  his  mind 
stealthily  insinuated;  but  they  were  all  the  time  sliding 
into  his  attention,  as  though  devils  were  at  work  in  his 
tired  brain,  maddening  him.  If  Patricia  were  not  pure, 
of  what  use  her  youth,  her  charm,  her  cleverness? 


310  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

None,  none,  none!  He  was  distraught  with  suspicions; 
not  with  beliefs,  not  with  doubts;  but  with  these  sugges- 
tions, which  were  like  secret  voices  of  temptation.  It 
was  essential  that  he  should  deal  with  them  seriously, 
by  direct  conflict,  and  not  emotionally,  by  infatuated 
refusal  to  face  possibilities. 

And  the  meal  continued,  and  the  chatter — although 
sobered  by  the  turn  which  the  talk  had  taken — was  main- 
tained. Edgar  could  not  leave  the  others.  Gaythorpe 
was  his  guest.  He  must  play  his  part.  This  he  did, 
with  honest  endeavour  to  preserve  his  good  spirits  and 
his  composure.  He  followed  the  others  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  there  drank  coffee  with  them.  For  a  moment 
rt  struck  him  that  it  was  almost  better  to  be  with  the 
whole  party  than  with  Gaythorpe  alone.  If  Gaythorpe 
were  in  his  study,  then  a  process  of  inquiry  might  be 
applied;  until  Edgar  could  not  be  sure  of  his  power  to 
avoid  such  irritability  as  would  be,  to  Gaythorpe's  prob- 
ing mind,  more  betraying  than  actual  proclamation. 

But  either  from  tact  or  from  imperceptiveness,  Gay- 
thorpe made  no  attempt,  when  at  last  they  withdrew 
from  the  others,  to  introduce  a  personal  note.  His  desire 
to  see  Edgar  that  night  had  been  due  entirely  to  business 
problems;  and  it  was  with  these  that  the  two  men  were 
engaged  for  a  further  hour.  Only  as  he  left,  old  Gay- 
thorpe, in  bidding  farewell  to  Mrs.  Mayne,  dropped  a 
hint  unheard  by  Edgar.  To  Mrs.  Mayne's  invitation  for 
another  evening  he  made  a  significant  reply. 

"And  I  hope  that  the  next  time  I  come  I  shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  Miss  Patricia  .  .  .  Patricia 
Quin.  You  have  quite  whetted  my  appetite  to  see  the 
young  lady." 

He  bowed,  and  his  hand-pressure  was  a  reassurance 
to  Mrs.  Mayne;  who  was  much  comforted  by  such  con- 
firmation of  her  belief  in  Patricia's  innocence. 


NIGHT  CALL  311 


vn 


At  last  Edgar  was  alone.  He  had  bidden  good-bye  to  ' 
Olivia,  and  had  received  her  invitation  to  come  at  any 
time,  on  any  day,  to  visit  the  babies.  He  had  said  good- 
night to  his  mother  and  father,  had  received  a  light  touch 
of  farewell  from  his  sister;  and  he  was  in  his  room,  by 
the  fire,  with  a  pipe;  and  a  tray  bearing  a  decanter,  a 
syphon,  and  a  glass,  together  with  a  slice  of  Mrs. 
Mayne's  latest  private  cake,  lay  on  a  small  table  behind 
him.  He  was  bending  over  the  fire  in  the  room's  light 
glow,  and  the  books  were  shining  and  the  shelves  gleam- 
ing in  the  shadow,  when,  with  a  slight  rustle,  Claudia 
appeared  in  a  long  silk  dressing-gown,  her  hair  plaitec:  ' 
for  the  night. 

"My  dear,"  she  hurriedly  said.  "I  knew  you'd  feel 
a  bit  sick.  You  don't  believe  it's  true,  do  you?"  The 
remark  was  not  a  question.  It  was  a  statement. 

Edgar  turned,  making  no  pretence  of  misunderstand- 
ing her. 

"No,"  he  said.  "It's  not  true.  And  of  course  it's  the 
venom  of  a  miserable  woman.  But  it  doesn't  make  me 
very  cheerful,  because  .  .  .  well,  at  any  rate,  they're 
friends." 

"I  was  afraid  of  that,"  breathed  Claudia.  "I  thought 
she  might  be  ...  in  love  with  him.  I  got  an  idea  .  .  . 
nothing  at  all  ...  just  the  sort  of  thing  you  imagine. 
.  .  .  That's  really  why  I  came." 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  answered  Edgar,  gravely,  and  with- 
out very  much  sanguine  colour  in  his  tone.  "Good- 
night." 

No  caress  passed.  Claudia  was  a  sister,  and  Edgar 
was  a  brother.  They  loved  and  trusted  each  other.  But 
neither  could  have  borne  to  see  the  other  in  acute  dis- 
tress; because  both  knew  that  the  cause  of  such  distress 


312  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

would  necessarily  be  external  to  themselves,  and  there- 
fore beyond  reach  of  consolation.  Claudia  silently  with- 
drew. 

Nevertheless,  her  visit  had  done  Edgar  good.  He  sat 
on,  smoking;  and  the  fire  grew  less  brilliant,  dying  on 
the  surface  and  keeping  its  red  heart,  as  it  would  con- 
tinue to  do  long  after  the  grate  had  seemed  to  a  casual 
eye.  to  be  filled  only  with  sullen  ash.  The  room  was  a 
large  one,  and  there  were  many  books  in  bright,  warm 
bindings.  A  desk  stood  near  the  window,  in  such  a  posi- 
tion that  in  daylight  it  would  catch  the  sun  upon  its  left 
side.  The  desk  was  orderly.  It  bore  a  stand  lamp  and 
a  stationery  cabinet,  and  various  bundles  of  papers,  tied 
or  encircled  with  bands.  To  this  desk  Edgar  presently 
went,  standing  above  it  lost  in  thought,  the  finger  tips 
of  one  hand  resting  lightly  upon  its  surface.  And  at 
length,  when  his  pipe  was  burning  harshly,  he  knocked 
out  the  remaining  charred  fragments  of  tobacco,  and 
mixed  himself  a  whisky-and-soda.  In  a  few  minutes  he 
would  be  in  bed,  thinking  still  of  Patricia.  .  .  . 

And,  as  he  thought  that,  it  seemed  to  Edgar  that  he 
heard  the  ringing  of  the  telephone  bell.  Strange!  He 
opened  the  door  of  his  room.  There  was  no  mistake. 
The  bell  was  furiously  ringing.  It  was  echoing  through 
the  house.  Edgar  knew  that  everybody  else  was  in  bed, 
so  he  did  not  delay.  He  ran  down  to  the  clothes-cup- 
board, and  heard  the  rattling  of  the  bell  still  in  the 
receiver  as  he  put  it  to  his  ear. 

"Hullo!    Hullo!"  he  cried. 

And  from  far  off  came  a  little  breathless  voice. 

"Mr.  Mayne's?  Is  that  you?  Edgar?  This  is  Pa- 
tricia. I'm  at  Monty's  .  .  .  yes,  Monty's.  Look  here, 
I  haven't  .  .  .  changed  my  mind.  N(o.  But  I'm  in 
trouble.  Could  you  come  and  fetch  me  in  your  car? 
Could  you  ?  How.  splendid !  Don't  come  to  the  house. 


NIGHT  CALL  313 

No,  don't  come.  I'll  walk  along  to  Marlborough  Road 
station,  and  wait  for  you  there.  Yes.  You're  sure  it's 
all  right?  Sure?  Be  quick.  Quick.  .  .  ."  Her  voice 
died  as  she  said  the  last  words;  showing  that  she  was 
moving  away  from  the  telephone  even  as  she  spoke. 

Strangely  elated,  his  heart  beating  fast,  Edgar  stood 
for  an  instant  ejaculating  with  surprise. 

"Well!"  he  whispered  to  himself.  "What  on  earth 
does  that  mean  ?"  In  his  excitement  Edgar  gave  a  little 
laugh.  "Extraordinary !" 

No  more  time  was  wasted.  It  was  precious.  He  ran 
quickly  to  the  hall,  back  to  get  an  overcoat,  felt  in  its 
place  for  the  garage  key,  remembered  approximately  the 
amount  of  petrol  in  the  tank  of  his  car,  made  sure  that 
he  had  the  key  of  the  front  door, — all  as  if  in  a  single 
movement  of  thought  and  action;  and  then,  with  his 
coat  still  open,  left  the  house  at  high  speed.  He  was  out 
again  in  the  night,  and  in  that  chilly  darkness,  racing  to 
the  garage ;  and  as  he  raced  he  laughed  again,  exhilarated 
by  the  sense  of  adventure,  by  the  surprise  of  such  a  call, 
by  quick  speculation  as  to  its  cause.  Above  everything 
else,  exhilarated  by  the  knowledge  that  he  was  after  all 
to  see  Patricia  that  night. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY:  BABIES 


THE  night  was  very  still  and  very  fresh;  but  it  was 
not  freezing.  A  little  wind  hung  and  played  in  the 
trees,  and  sometimes  swept  along  the  ground;  and  it  was 
dark  because  neither  moon  nor  stars  were  visible.  All  the 
noises  of  the  day  were  silenced.  Only  at  times  did  a 
solitary  taxi-cab  create  a  burst  of  humming  as  it  passed 
the  end  of  a  road,  and  the  sound  faded  as  suddenly  as  it 
had  risen.  Edgar,  running  from  the  house  in  his  thin 
shoes,  made  hardly  more  than  a  light  pattering  upon  the 
sidewalk.  It  was  a  night  for  adventure. 

He  could  not  yield  to  the  quick  speculations  which 
darted  to  his  brain;  for  the  moment  was  one  which  de- 
manded a  clear  head  and  rapidly  applied  thought.  So 
many  things  might  impede  his  progress  :  the  car  might  be 
difficult  to  start,  a  tyre  might  be  down,  the  thousand  un- 
expected vagaries  with  which  the  motorist  may  at  any 
moment  be  hindered  were  all  present  as  possibilities  to 
Edgar's  mind.  He  was  alert  and  anxious,  bent  upon 
meeting  every  emergency  before  it  arose;  and  as  he  ran 
swiftly  he  was  almost  praying  that  there  might  on  this 
occasion  be  no  mishap. 

The  garage  in  which  Edgar  kept  his  car  lay  at  some 
distance  from  his  home.  It  had  been  a  stable;  but  was 
so  no  longer.  Two  heavy,  painted  doors  fastened  with 
a  padlock.  They  were  opened  very  quickly,  and  pushed 
back  against  the  outer  wall  of  the  garage.  The  light 
showed  his  faithful  friend  standing  mutely  in  its  place, 
as  if  waiting  for  his  arrival — a  grave  little  dark  blue 

314 


BABIES  315 

coupe  with  a  long  blue  bonnet  to  match  its  body,  and  an 
interior  of  soft  grey.  Even  in  his  haste,  Edgar  looked 
proudly  upon  the  car.  It  was  so  beautiful,  so  speedy, 
so  responsive  to  his  touch;  its  line  was  so  graceful,  its 
lightness  so  apparent.  Very  fit  instrument  was  this  car 
for  the  deliverance  of  any  maid  in  distress.  There  was 
no  least  incongruity  between  it  and  the  romantic  mission 
upon  which  Edgar  believed  himself  to  be  engaged. 

And  yet  he  must  not  stay  to  think  or  feel.  For  him 
the  detail  of  mechanical  aids  to  swiftness  was  of  urgent 
importance.  As  if  in  one  movement,  he  switched  on  the 
lights,  front  and  tail,  manipulated  three  little  knobs,  ran 
quickly  to  the  front  of  the  car,  and  gave  his  engine  a 
swing.  His  lips  were  tightly  compressed;  his  expert  ear 
was  strained.  .  .  .  The  engine  was  cold.  What  if  there 
should  be  a  difficulty  in  starting?  Ghastly!  Again  he 
swung  upon  the  handle,  and  at  the  resulting  sound 
straightened  with  a  breath  of  inexplicable  relief.  Within 
that  little  blur  of  fluttering  noise  lay  reassurance.  It  was 
all  right.  Tick-a-tick-a-tick-a-tick,  said  the  engine,  as 
happy  and  regular  as  if  the  car  were  coasting  a  hill. 
One,  two,  three;  Edgar  was  in  his  place.  The  noise  was 
increased.  The  car  was  in  motion.  He  was  out  upon 
the  dark  road,  speeding  to  Patricia  through  the  deserted 
streets,  now  so  fair  and  open  to  the  questing  traveller; 
the  only  sound  audible  to  Edgar  that  beautiful  eagerness 
which  animated  his  own  car.  His  eyes  were  steady  and 
his  hand  easy  upon  the  wheel.  The  lights  of  the  main 
thoroughfares  were  clear,  unearthly,  and  the  way  was 
free,  as  if  inviting  him  to  the  race. 

London  at  night  he  knew;  but  this  journey  gave  Edgar 
a  new  vision  of  it.  So  quickly  did  he  pass  familiar 
objects  that  they  swam  together  in  his  recording  im- 
pression. It  was  London  dignified  and  purified  into 
ghostly  loveliness  by  the  night,  but  London  so  decreased 


316  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

in  size  that  it  became  a  village.  All  monuments  and 
buildings  of  great  size  or  antiquity  were  made  insignifi- 
cant; the  broad  roads  of  the  west  as  he  sped  through 
them  were  so  many  paths.  He  had  his  goal,  and  could 
not  attend  the  beauties  he  so  silently  and  so  eagerly  left 
upon  his  way. 

Arid  at  last,  as  he  emerged  to  the  appointed  meeting- 
place,  Edgar  saw  Patricia,  a  little  disconsolate  figure, 
waiting  in  the  shadow  of  the  railway-station  fagade.  All 
there  was  darkness.  The  last  trains  had  rumbled  their 
way  through  the  station,  and  it  was  as  deserted  as  if  it 
had  been  forgotten.  Only  Patricia's  outline  was  to  be 
discerned,  but  she  was  recognisable,  and  as  he  turned  the 
car  and  ran  alongside  the  kerb  she  came  immediately 
forward.  Both  moved  as  in  a  dream.  He  had  one 
glimpse  of  a  white  face  within  the  radiance  of  the  nearer 
lamp;  and  his  nerves  thrilled  as  he  opened  the  door  so 
that  she  could  join  him.  It  was  an  almost  mute  en- 
counter, with  midnight  long  past,  in  this  silence  and  dark- 
ness, and  there  was  unavoidable  constraint  upon  both 
sides,  so  singular  was  the  relation  existing  between  them. 
Without  a  word,  Patricia  shut  the  door  and  drew  back 
into  the  farther  corner  of  the  car,  away  from  Edgar. 
To  his  inquiry  she  made  no  answer,  and  he  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  closed,  as  if  in  complete  exhaustion.  Puzzled, 
Edgar  touched  her  hand  once ;  but  there  was  no  response, 
and  after  a  single  instant  in  which  he  tried  to  gain  some 
knowledge  from  Patricia's  expression  he  turned  away 
once  more  and  in  silence  they  began  their  journey  to- 
gether. 

ii 

Now  all  was  changed.  Edgar  no  longer  drove  at  reck- 
less speed.  He  went  slowly  and  easily  by  a  longer  route, 
which  took  them  by  frequented  stre«ts;  and  they  passed 


BABIES  317 

many  cabs  or  cars  travelling  from  the  opposite  direction. 
They  were  thus  not  alone,  since  they  were  in  an  active 
world.  Edgar  was  still  concentrated  upon  the  car  and  the 
road ;  but  he  was  very  conscious  of  Patricia's  ominous  and 
stubborn  silence.  Many  explanations  of  it,  and  specula- 
tions as  to  what  had  happened,  and  what  had  made  her 
telephone  to  him  at  so  late  an  hour  entered  his  head ;  but 
a  moving  automobile  at  night,  in  a  city,  when  one  is  the 
driver,  is  not  a  possible  situation  for  agitated  enquiry. 
Edgar  therefore  waited  for  Patricia  to  explain  of  her 
own  accord,  which  apparently  she  could  not  yet  do. 
Therefore,  with  only  occasional  slight  glances  aside  at 
the  face  half  invisible  in  the  darkness,  he  concerned  him- 
self wholly  with  their  progress.  Only  when  the  road 
was  at  last  clear,  and  he  could  take  the  wheel  with  his 
right  hand,  did  he  stretch  out  the  left  to  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.     "What  was  it?" 

Patricia  took  his  hand  in  both  her  own,  and  pressed  it, 
holding  it  tightly  against  her  breast.  But  still  she  did 
not  speak ;  and  in  a  moment,  when  there  was  an  obstruc- 
tion in  the  road,  Edgar  was  forced  to  withdraw  his  hand 
so  that  he  could  use  the  other  to  sound  the  warning  horn. 
He  could  feel  Patricia's  hand  extended  so  that  she  could 
touch  him,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  wished  this  re- 
assuring contact  gave  him  a  faint  happiness;  and  so  they 
sat  together  in  the  darkness  until  they  arrived  in  Chelsea, 
and  in  the  road  where  Patricia  lived.  Edgar  stopped 
the  car  and  the  engine,  turning  to  her. 

"You  haven't  changed  your  mind,"  he  said,  in  a 
murmur.  "What  then?" 

His  arm  was  moved  to  embrace  her;  but  she  did  not 
permit  it.  Only  she  again  took  his  hand  in  both  of 
hers. 

"I  haven't  changed  my  mind  at  all,"  said  Patricia  in 
a  cold  voice. 


318  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"So  I  heard,"  answered  Edgar,  smiling,  his  face  close 
to  hers. 

"But  I  wanted  to  see  you,"  she  whispered. 

"And  then?" 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Nothing,"  whispered  Patricia  again,  so  low  that  he 
could  hardly  hear  her.  She  immediately  afterwards 
stiffened,  discarding  his  hand  as  though  it  had  been  a 
loathsome  temptation.  Edgar  stared  down  at  his  poor 
hand.  "Nothing — nothing  at  all." 

"It's  done  you  good  to  see  me?"  he  asked.  He  could 
see  a  quick  little  nodding.  "Well,  that's  something, 
don't  you  think?" 

"You're  good,"  said  Patricia.  "You're  better  than 
me." 

"Of  course,  I'm  extraordinarily  good,"  Edgar  agreed. 
"But—" 

"Silly!"  It  was  a  sort  of  ashamed  mumble  that  he 
heard.  "Well,  I'm  going  now." 

"Oh,  not  yet."  He  had  tried  to  take  her  hand;  but 
Patricia  eluded  him,  and  bent  forward  to  open  the  door. 
The  catch  was  difficult,  and  she  could  not  master  it. 
Edgar  also  bent  forward,  both  arms  extended;  and  it 
seemed  so  much  easier  to  take  Patricia  in  his  arms  than 
to  undo  the  catch  of  the  door  that  he  could  not  help  fol- 
lowing the  easier  course. 

"No!"  cried  Patricia,  succeeding  with  the  catch,  and 
almost  tumbling  out  of  the  car.  She  shut  the  door  firmly 
behind  her;  and  Edgar,  inside,  looked  out  upon  Patricia, 
who  stood  without.  The  window  upon  that  side  of  the  car 
was  raised,  and  so  communication  between  them  was 
impossible.  Edgar  opened  the  door.  "Don't  get  out," 
said  Patricia,  quickly.  "Thank  you  very  much  for  com- 
ing for  me.  It  was  awfully  good  of  you  to  come." 

"Not  at  all,"  said   Edgar,  very  politely,  stepping  to 


BABIES  319 

the  ground.  "But  won't  you  tell  me  why  you  wanted 
to  see  me?  And  there  are  one  or  two  other  things,  by 
the  way — " 

Patricia  groaned. 

"I  can't  argue  with  you  to-night,"  she  said,  as  if  in  a 
goaded  voice  of  exhaustion. 

"Will  you  argue  with  me  to-morrow  ?" 

"I'll  never  argue  with  you!"  vehemently  exclaimed 
Patricia.  He  did  not  believe  her.  He  thought  she  would 
always  argue  with  him.  "And  I'm  not  sure  that  I  want 
to  see  you  to-morrow." 

"Very  well,"  said  Edgar  quietly.  He  took  off  his  cap, 
and  stepped  back  into  the  car. 

"What  time?"  cried  Patricia. 

He  leaned  forward. 

"You're  a  silly  little  thing!"  he  said.  "But  as  to- 
morrow is  Saturday,  and  I  shall  not  go  to  the  office  at 
all,  I'll  call  for  you  in  this  at  ten  o-clock,  and  take  you 
to  some  thoroughly  vulgar  and  third-rate  hotel  for 
lunch,  and  then  I'll  explain — I  won't  argue;  but  I'll  ex- 
plain— what's  the  matter  with  you." 

And  with  that  he  used  his  mechanical  starter,  closed 
the  door  of  the  car,  and  would  have  driven  off.  But 
Patricia  had  come  round  to  the  open  window  of  the  car. 

"Edgar,"  she  said,  pleadingly.  "Don't  be  unkind. 
I've  been  a  horrible  little  beast  to-night;  and  I'm  very 
ashamed  of  myself — and  worse.  And  I  had  to  see  you 
to  ...  to  ..."  She  stammered.  "I  can't  tell  you," 
she  continued.  "Yes,  I  can.  I  must.  I  wanted  to  see 
you  to  get  clean  again  after  what  I've  been  going  through 
this  evening.  And  while  I  was  waiting  for  you  I 
thought  I'd  see  if  I  was  good  enough  for  you.  And  I'm 
not.  But  do  come  for  me  to-morrow.  It's  very  neces- 
sary. Really.  Good-night,  Edgar."  She  held  her  hand 
in  at  the  window.  He  shook  it,  and  Patricia,  who  per- 


320  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

haps  had  expected  another  form  of  farewell,  withdrew 
the  hand  as  the  car  moved  forward  upon  its  homeward 
journey. 

iii 

The  next  morning  Edgar  gave  Claudia  the  surprise  of 
her  life.  They  were  sitting  at  breakfast,  and  Claudia 
was  being  very  quiet  and  tactful  in  case  Edgar  should 
be  feeling  badly  about  what  Olivia  had  said  during 
dinner  on  the  previous  evening.  She  had  taken  peeps 
at  him,  and  was  gradually  relaxing  her  vigilance  in  face 
of  his  apparently  normal  cheerfulness.  Neither  Mr.  nor 
Mrs.  Mayne  was  present;  and  the  brother  and  sister 
were  eating  and  drinking  with  a  sedate  nonchalance  cus- 
tomary to  both. 

"You  going  to  the  office  to-day  ?"  asked  Claudia,  sud- 
denly. 

Edgar  awakened  from  some  evidently  pleasant  pre- 
occupation. 

"Er  .  .  .  no,  not  to-day,"  he  said,  helping  himself  to 
another  piece  of  toast.  "By  the  way,  you've  got  a  fur 
coat,  haven't  you?  Could  you  lend  it  to  me?  That  is, 
I  suppose  you  wouldn't  mind  Patricia  wearing  it?  I'm 
taking  her  out  to-day  in  Budge,  and  she  might  be  cold." 

Claudia  passed  her  hand  across  her  forehead. 

"Taking  Patricia.  .  .  .  My  poor  boy!"  she  cried. 
"Trouble's  turned  your  brain.  No,  no.  I'll  come  if  you 
think  it  would  do  you  good;  but  Patricia  .  .  ." 

"I  am  taking  Patricia  out  in  Budge  to-day,"  repeated 
Edgar.  "And  require  the  loan  of  your  fur  coat.  Don't 
ask  questions,  there's  a  good  girl;  but  if  you  wouldn't 
mind  lending  the  coat  it  might  be  a  boon." 

Claudia  collapsed. 

"The  world  ends,"  she  said,  as  if  stupefied.  "Of 
course,  have  my  fur  coat.  Take  anything.  But  for 


BABIES  321 

Goodness'   sake,   Edgar,   don't   leave  this   thing  unex- 
plained.    I  couldn't  bear  it." 

"I  may  bring  Patricia  here  to  dinner  to-night,"  an- 
swered Edgar,  briefly.  "On  the  other  hand,  I  may  not." 

"Quite  probably  not,  I  should  say,"  observed  Claudia, 
with  detachment.  "Does  she  know  you're  taking  her  out 
in  Budge?"  He  nodded.  Claudia  rushed  wildly  to  the 
door,  and  returned  presently  bearing  a  fur  coat. 
"There!"  she  cried.  "And  if  you  won't  tell  me  what 
communication  you've  had  with  Patricia  since  I  went 
to  bed  last  night  you're  a  pig,  and  I'll  throw  you  over." 

He  explained,  tactfully,  that  Patricia  had  telephoned. 
He  said  no  more.  He  was  not  now  quite  sure  what  Iiad 
happened  on  the  previous  night.  He  could  not  disen- 
tangle from  each  other  the  speeches  actually  made  and 
those  which  had  occurred  to  him  since  as  possible  to  have 
been  made  in  such  circumstances.  He  was  sure  of  only 
one  thing;  and  he  was  not,  as  yet,  ready  to  tell  Claudia 
the  whole  truth  Therefore  he  took  her  fur  coat  and 
swung  easily  out  of  the  house  bearing  it  upon  his  arm. 

Claudia,  left  by  herself  at  the  breakfast-table,  was 
bereft  of  self-confidence. 

"Well !"  she  exclaimed.  "What  does  it  all  mean?  I'm 
flabbergasted !"  She  knew  there  had  been  no  telephone 
call  this  morning.  She  knew  that  Patricia  had  no  tele- 
phone in  her  rooms.  It  was  a  mystery.  For  the  first 
time  she  wondered  whether  it  might  not  be  the  case 
that  Patricia  loved  Edgar.  She  had  not  believed  that 
hitherto.  It  was  a  testimony  to  her  insight  as  well  as  to 
her  sisterly  tact  that  she  had  not  believed  it  and  had  not 
pretended  to  believe  it,  while  at  the  same  time  she  had 
resolved  that  it  should  become  credible  to  both  Edgar 
and  herself.  Perhaps,  also,  to  Patricia.  She  went  about 
her  work  durin?  the  morning  with  a  lighter  heart  than 
she  had  known  for  several  days. 


322  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

iv 

Edgar  was  punctual  in  his  arrival  at  Patricia's  door. 
As  he  left  the  car  and  lowered  its  hood,  a  church  clock 
near  by  struck  the  hour.  He  advanced  to  the  front  door, 
and  knocked.  And  as  he  did  so  Patricia  appeared  at  the 
door,  dressed  for  going  out.  She  had  feverishly  been 
ready  for  ten  minutes,  and  had  watched  for  him.  She 
greeted  him,  but  their  eyes  did  not  meet,  and  he  could 
see  that  she  was  still  pale,  possibly  from  want  of  sleep; 
possibly  even,  it  might  have  been,  from  inability  to  eat 
her  breakfast. 

"I  brought  a  coat  of  Claudia's,"  he  said,  with  a  good 
deal  of  carelessness  which  covered  a  temporary  lack  of 
assurance.  "You'd  better  wear  it,  because  it  may  be  very 
cold  driving.  Would  you  like  to  leave  your  own  coat? 
No,  better  bring  it." 

Patricia  was  mystified  as  to  his  reasoning;  but  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  packed  into  the  fur  coat,  and  then 
sat  quite  still  while  Edgar  re-started  the  car  and  drove 
down  the  road  and  round  a  corner  into  the  King's  Road 
and  so  through  Putney  to  Kingston  and  out  on  to  the 
Guildford  road.  She  had  tried  to  equal  his  casualness 
with  her  own;  but  she  was  feeling  very  shaky,  and  was 
glad  of  the  silence.  Patricia  did  not  know  where  they 
were  going;  but  the  car's  smooth  motion  was  delightful, 
and  the  morning  was  crisply  cold;  and  as  they  drew  free 
of  traffic  and  tramcars  the  opening  country  began  to 
surround  her  with  beauties  which  sprang  freshly  upon 
every  hand  and  awakened  self-forgetful  rapture  in  her 
heart.  Although  the  year  was  dying,  there  were  trees 
which  still  clung  to  their  leaves,  and  strange  attractive 
byeways  which  caught  the  eye  and  roused  the  impulse  to 
explore;  and,  as  they  sped  farther,  charming  little  towns 
and  villages  which  she  had  never  before  seen.  When 


BABIES  323 

once  they  were  through  Guildford  and  upon  the  Hog's 
Back  the  views — thinned  and  obscured  though  they  were 
by  autumnal  mists — were  entrancing,  and  Patricia  lay 
back  with  colour  coming  again  into  her  cheeks  and  a 
sparkle  to  her  eyes.  She  was  cosily  warm  in  the  bor- 
rowed fur  coat;  the  car,  although  small,  had  the  move- 
ment of  one  considerably  larger;  and  as  Patricia  had 
almost  complete  ignorance  of  motoring  the  experience 
was  new  and  fine.  Everything  passed  swiftly — every- 
thing was  glimpsed,  half -seen,  and  immediately  succeeded 
by  some  other  object  of  beauty  or  interest,  until  it  seemed 
as  though  she  must  be  surfeited,  since  the  greedy  mind 
could  not  hold  so  many  fleeting  images  of  loveliness. 
Patricia  thought  that  this  must  be  the  way  in  which  chil- 
dren saw  the  whole  of  life — as  a  great  swift  progress  of 
joys  to  which  they  had  only  to  stretch  their  hands.  But 
%those  who  grew  up  knew  that  the  joys  passed  before 
'(ever  they  were  gathered.  The  joys  alone?  Perhaps  the 
Borrows  also.  Everything  .  .  .  everything  passed.  .  .  . 
That  was  the  thought  in  her  mind.  She  remembered  the 
French  saying.  .  .  .  Everything  passes.  Would  this 
journey  end?  Would  she  always  travel  unsatisfied, 
wonder-struck  and  unresting?  Was  that  her  lot?  The 
fear  of  it  made  her  shiver. 

"Cold?"  asked  Edgar,  aside. 

Could  he  see  her?  Was  he  then  watching,  although  so 
apparently  intent  upon  the  road?  Patricia  cried  "No!" 
in  response,  and  a  further  "Lovely!"  in  case  he  should 
be  hurt;  and  then  her  eyes  stole  on  a  journey.  If  Edgar 
could  know  when  she  shivered,  was  there  ever  to  be  any 
escape  from  his  watchfulness,  his  care?  When  Patricia, 
like  the  Devil,  was  sick,  or  afraid,  there  was  nothing  she 
so  demanded  as  care;  but  when  she  was  well,  it  irked 
her.  She  could  see  Edgar's  face  in  profile,  brown  and 
kind  and  firm;  and  she  was  a  little  afraid  of  him.  She 


o24  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

thought  he  could  be  stern.  Not  cruel — never  cruel;  but 
stern.  And  the  words  "all  the  better  to  eat  you  with,  my 
dear"  crept  into  Patricia's  head.  She  was  very  subdued, 
and  although  she  was  still  observant  of  the  beauties  they 
passed,  and  stirred  by  the  rapid  motion  through  crisp  air 
that  was  now  tempered  by  brilliant  sunshine,  extraor- 
dinarily defensive  argumentation  was  going  on  in  her 
brain.  If  she  were  to  marry  Edgar,  it  must  be  after  clear 
speech  between  them.  Never  for  comfort  or  in  despair. 
She  was  resolved  upon  that.  For  one  thing,  her  respect 
for  him  exacted  as  much.  Patricia's  nerve  had  been 
shaken,  and  she  had  lost  some  of  her  self-confidence; 
and,  with  that,  some  of  her  natural  ease  of  carriage  and 
pleasure  in  life  itself. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  she  presently  called  out. 

To  her  surprise,  Edgar  slowed  down.  He  even 
stopped,  there  upon  the  Hog's  Back,  with  the  beautiful 
country  stretching  away  in  two  valleys  upon  each  side 
of  the  lofty  road. 

"Wherever  you  like,"  he  said.  "We  can  lunch  at  Win- 
chester. There's  a  village  on  the  way  there — a  most 
charming  village  called  Chawton,  where  Jane  Austen 
lived — full  of  old  thatched  houses.  You'd  like  it.  I 
don't  know  anything  more  delicious  in  its  way.  I  don't 
know  if  we  could  get  food  there." 

"Are  you  hungry?"  she  asked.  Unconsciously  her 
tone  was  arch;  but  with  pathetic,  troubled  archness. 
"And  what's  that  about  Jane  Austen?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  bring  anything  to  eat,  and  the  air  will 
make  you  hungry.  We  can  either  go  south  from 
Farnham — only  I  don't  know  the  roads  round  Liss  or 
Petersfield ; — or  we  can  go  on  to  Winchester,  lunch  there, 
and  go  back  by  way  of  Basingstoke.  Or  we  can  turn 
back  now  and  go  through  Guildford  to  Godalming.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  oh !"  cried  Patricia.    "I  don't  mind  what  we  do." 


BABIES  325 

"You  like  it?"  He  was  looking  at  her  in  such  a 
peculiar  way  that  Patricia  shivered  again.  It  seemed  to 
break  her  composure,  which  she  was  struggling  so  hard 
to  preserve. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  she  whispered  suddenly.  "I'm  not 
worth  it!" 

Her  hands  were  in  his,  and  her  eyes  were  as  candid 
as  his  own.  So  they  sat  in  the  car  on  that  bright  morn- 
ing, upon  the  top  of  the  Hog's  Back,  and  the  wide  rise 
and  fall  of  the  lower  lands  spreading  to  north  and  south 
under  a  slight  haze.  The  sky  above  them  was  a  deep 
blue.  The  road  was  open,  and  it  seemed  that  none  used 
it,  so  peaceful  was  the  scene  upon  this  glorious  morning. 
Only  Edgar  and  Patricia  were  there,  with  the  breeze 
around  them,  and  the  sunshine  ardent,  and  a  sense  of  the 
limitlessness  of  the  world  strong  in  both. 

It  was  here  that  their  talk  began. 


"Of  course  the  trouble  about  you  is  that  you  don't 
love  me,"  said  Edgar,  in  a  cool  voice  which  showed  that 
he  was  anxious  by  its  elaborate  calm.  "Not,  at  any  rate, 
as  I  love  you." 

"No,"  agreed  Patricia.  Her  own  tone  was  a  copy  of 
his;  and  the  word  was  a  mere  acceptance.  She  was  as 
grave  as  he,  and  yet  neither  was  grave.  They  were  both 
grave  and  not  grave.  But  Patricia  had  said  "no";  and 
Edgar  had  received  the  shock  to  which  he  had  steeled 
himself. 

"Do  you — forgive  me — you  don't  love  anybody  else? 
It  isn't,  of  course,  necessary  that  you  should ;  but  some- 
times it's  a  factor." 

Patricia  glanced  up  at  him,  and  even  in  her  gravity  she 
smiled. 


326  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"No,  I  don't  love  anybody  else,"  she  said.  "And  I 
know  you  well  enough  to  know  that  when  you  talk  like 
that  you're  being  funny." 

"I'm  not  being  at  all  funny,"  protested  Edgar.  There 
was  a  sound  of  consent  from  Patricia.  He  went  on, 
undeterred.  "The  reason  you  don't  love  anybody  else  is 
that  you're  in  love  with  yourself." 

"Oh."  Patricia  had  not  been  so  forewarned  as  to  steel 
herself;  and  this  shock  depressed  her.  In  a  very  low 
voice  she  said,  trying  to  hide  her  wound :  "I'm  not  much 
in  love  with  myself  at  this  moment." 

The  tone  was  so  sad  that  unconsciously  Edgar  pressed 
her  hands  in  pain.  He  would  have  done  so  much  to 
save  her  from  humiliation;  and  yet  his  way  was  clear 
and  his  attitude  deliberately  adopted. 

"This  is  your  wickedness,  I  suppose?"  he  asked  pa- 
tiently. Patricia  nodded. 

"At  least,  not  wickedness — silliness.  But  perhaps 
you'd  think  it  worse.  I'd  better  tell  you.  Five  minutes 
ago — a  few  days  ago — I  thought  I  was  in  love  with  a 
man." 

"Harry  Greenlees,"  interposed  Edgar.  Again  Pa- 
tricia nodded. 

"I  can't  have  been.  I  was  attracted  to  him — I  thought 
I  was  in  love  with  him.  I  thought  he  was  my  ideal 
man.  I  was  fond  of  him.  But  when  it  came  to  the  point 
I  felt  I  couldn't  ever  marry  him.  And  as  a  matter  of 
fact  he  didn't  want  to  marry  me.  He  only  wanted  to 
have  a  love  affair  with  me.  But  I  only  found  that  out 
at  the  end.  Well,  it's  a  very  little  while  ago,  and  I  was 
in  great  anguish;  and  now  I've  forgotten  him.  It 
couldn't  have  been  anything;  anything  but  just  a  silly 
playing  at  love  and  beauty.  It  wasn't  his  fault.  He  did 
care  for  me  in  his  own  way;  but  it  was  a  grown-up  way; 
and  I  wasn't  ready  for  grown-up  love.  I'm  not  ready 


BABIES  327 

now.  I'm  shallow.  I  don't  think  I  could  love  anybody. 
Perhaps  what  you  said  is  true." 

Edgar  had  listened  with  attention;  and  he  could  tell 
that  she  was  being  painfully  honest,  and  that  she  could 
not  help  being  honest  with  him ;  and  this  made  him  feel 
proud  and  humble.  It  seemed  to  Edgar  to  be  the  first 
step  in  such  a  relation  as  theirs  must  be  if  it  was  to  lead 
to  happiness  for  them  both. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  much  wickedness 
there,"  he  suggested  mildly. 

"No,  there  isn't,"  said  Patricia,  with  a  faint  colour 
coming  to  her  cheeks.  "The  wickedness  comes  later. 
The  wickedness  comes  up  to  last  night."  She  could  tell 
that  he  was  now  really  serious,  and  she  faltered.  "It's 
.  .  .  it's  Monty,"  she  concluded.  Edgar's  head  jerked. 

"Monty !"  he  cried.  "Monty !  Oh,  but  my  dear,  how 
could  you?"  He  was  incredulous.  "Monty!" 

"He  fascinated  me.  There  was  no  question  of  my 
being  in  love  with  him.  But  he  made  me  feel  I  was 
wonderful  and  beautiful.  .  .  ." 

"But  to  be  taken  in  by  Monty!"  exclaimed  Edgar. 
"It's  extraordinary.  I  believe  women  must  somehow  be 
less  fastidious  than  men.  You  couldn't  imagine  me 
fascinated  with  Monty's  counterpart?"  His  face  ex- 
pressed the  horror  he  felt  at  his  own  image.  Patricia 
shuddered. 

"You'd  never  be  fascinated  by  anybody,"  she  said. 
"You'd  always  be  quite  calm.  Besides,  you  don't  want 
to  be  thought  wonderful." 

"I  don't  want  Brummagem  admiration." 

"And  you  don't  give  it!"  she  flashed  at  him.  "You 
don't  give  any  admiration.  You  don't  think  I'm  won- 
derful. You  think  I'm  a  silly  child.  Well,  that  makes 
.  .  .  you  see,  I  couldn't  love  you.  .  .  ." 

"By  the  way,"  said  Edgar,  coolly.    "What  makes  you 


328  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

think  you're  so  jolly  wonderful?  Is  it  something  you 
do,  or  something  you  are?" 

Patricia  looked  at  him  breathlessly.  She  was  stimu- 
lated to  temper. 

"Nobody  could  ever  love  you!"  she  cried  angrily. 
"You're  too  inhuman !" 

vi 

Her  hands  were  now  altogether  withdrawn  from  him, 
and  tears  sparkled  in  her  eyes.  Edgar  bent  forward,  so 
that  she  could  not  escape  him. 

"Look  here,  Patricia,"  he  said.  "Can  you  imagine  the 
feeling  of  a  lover  who  hears  that  the  girl  he  loves  has 
been  making  love  to  an  obvious  rotter  the  previous  eve- 
ning? I  mean,  if  there's  one  thing  that  strikes  me  about 
Monty  more  than  another  it  is  his  lack  of  ...  what  can 
I  say? — his  lack  of  ...  I  think  he's  obviously  sensual 
and  unclean.  I  can't  see  his  fascination  for  you.  If  I 
came  to  you  and  said  I'd  been  with  some  horrible  woman, 
wouldn't  you  turn  sick?  Well,  I'm  disappointed.  I'm 
angry.  The  love-making  is  nothing  unless  you  meant 
it,  which  you  didn't.  It's  nothing.  You  exaggerate  its 
importance.  You  were  never  in  any  real  danger.  I 
don't  blame  you,  except  for  folly.  Though  of  course  I 
don't  like  it.  But  that  you  should  be  taken  m  by 
Monty!" 

"I  wasn't  taken  in.  I  knew  he  must  be  a  rotter.  And 
yet,  you  see,  I  went  there,"  said  Patricia.  "That  shows 
the  sort  of  girl  I  am.  I  was  miserable  and  reckless. 
It  amused  me  to — to  play  with  him,  if  you  like.  It  made 
me  feel  a  woman.  I  was  trying  to  grow  up.  You've 
made  a  mistake,  Edgar."  She  was  bitter,  but  not  only 
with  anger.  There  was  hopelessness  also  in  her  defiance. 
"You  ought  to  marry  a  nice  girl." 


BABIES  329 

"I  propose  to,"  said  Edgar.  "I  propose  to  marry 
you." 

"Oho!"  cried  Patricia.  "You  won't  marry  me.  You 
needn't  think  it." 

"Unless  of  course,"  retorted  Edgar.  .  .  .  "Unless  I 
adopt  you.  That  might  be  the  simpler  course."  He  also 
for  the  moment  was  bitter  with  chagrin.  He  was  en- 
countering a  fact  which  was  hard  to  accept;  and  he  was 
in  love  with  Patricia. 

vii 

Leaving  Patricia  aghast  at  his  alternative,  he  began  to 
drive  on;  and  the  sun  continued  to  glitter  upon  the  pol- 
ished metal  of  the  car  and  upon  the  wind  screen.  Pa- 
tricia lay  back  in  her  corner  recovering  her  temper  and 
her  composure.  Presently  she  shouted  at  him. 

"You've  got  too  much  respect  for  women !"  she  said. 
Edgar  took  no  notice  of  her.  She  was  quiet  a  little  while, 
thinking.  At  last:  "You're  quite  right.  I'm  not  won- 
derful! Edgar,  stop!  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want 
to  tell  you  something." 

The  car  was  checked;  and  in  her  very  truthful  voice 
Patricia  described  the  events  of  the  previous  evening. 
When  she  came  to  the  thousand  pounds  Edgar  exclaimed. 
At  the  mention  of  two  thousand  he  turned  quickly  to  her. 

"Monty  was  prepared  to  go  up  to  two-thousand  five- 
hundred,"  he  said.  "He's  got  a  regal  way  of  pensioning 
his  mistresses.  You  might  have  made  two-thousand  five- 
hundred  pounds,  Patricia." 

"He  offered  to  marry  me,"  answered  Patricia,  de- 
fiantly. "But  he  didn't  really  mean  it,  of  course.  It  was 
only  something  to  attract  my  attention." 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  Edgar,  slowly.  "Your  lovers 
are  rather  a  fine  set  of  men,  aren't  they!" 


330  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"You  think  they're  something  to  be  conceited  about?" 
retorted  Patricia.  "Edgar,  don't  you  really  think  I'm 
rather  wonderful!"  It  was  apparently  wistful;  but  only 
apparently  so. 

"I'm  so  concerned  with  my  own  marvellousness,"  he 
crudely  answered,  "that  I  can't  spare  time  to  admire 
yours." 

"But  Edgar,  girls  have  to  be  admired,"  she  said.  "Look 
here:  you've  done  something.  You've  achieved  some- 
thing. Can't  you  see  that  if  you've  never  done  anything 
you  have  to  make  up  something  to  live  for.  If  I  loved 
'you,  and  had  no  other  ambition,  I  could  live  in  your 
interests,  as  you  want  me  to.  But  I  can't  play  second 
fiddle — not  yet — not  until  I've  sown  my  wild  oats.  If 
I'm  no  good,  then  .  .  ." 

Edgar  turned  round.  If  he  observed  the  fiddler  sow- 
ing wild  oats  he  ignored  the  confusion. 

"There's  something  in  that,"  he  said.  "I  don't  want 
you  to  play  second  fiddle.  You  haven't  made  up  your 
mind  to  marry  me;  but  you've  got  a  sense  that  you're 
going  to  ...  that's  so,  isn't  it  ?"  There  was  a  pause. 

"I  think  so,"  answered  Patricia  at  last,  in  a  very  quiet 
voice.  "It  seems  inevitable.  That  is,  if  I'm  to  marry 
anybody  at  all.  But  I'm  not  ready  to  marry  you." 

"What  you'd  like  to  do  is  not  to  make  up  your  mind. 
You'd  like  to  go  on  as  we  are,  being  friends,  until  I'm 
tired  of  you  and  you  are  tired  of  me,  and  we  can  have 
disagreeable  middle-ages  of  loneliness  and  regret.  I 
don't  care  to  waste  our  lives  in  that  way.  I  admit  that 
I'm  not  an  ideal  lover;  but  I've  got  other  points,  and  you 
know  them.  You  know  that  in  some  curious  way  you 
depend  on  me.  You  may  not  be  in  love  with  me;  but 
no  other  man  means  as  much  to  you,  or  will  ever  mean 
as  much.  If  it's  put  to  you  that  you  either  marry  me  or 
lose  me,  you'll  marry  me  rather  than  lose  me.  But  if 


BABIES  331 

you  don't  love  me,  it  would  be  very  wrong  to  marry  me 
simply  because  you  couldn't  bear  to  lose  me.  .  .  ." 

Patricia  allowed  him  to  wander  on.  She  was  smil- 
ing. 

"I  like  to  hear  you  talk,"  she  said.  "It's  agreeable. 
It's  all  irrelevant,  and  verbose;  and  if  you  think  I'm  to 
be  threatened  into  marrying  you,  you're  mistaken.  Can't 
you  see  it  would  murder  my  vanity  ?  But  I  haven't  any- 
thing to  give  you.  You'd  be  giving  to  me  all  the  time. 
I  could  have  given  something  they  wanted  to  Harry 
and  Monty,  and  when  it  came  to  the  point  I  wouldn't 
give  it,  because  they  couldn't  give  me  anything  I  wanted 
in  exchange.  You  can  give  me  a  lot.  You  can  make 
my  life  worth  living.  But  I  can't  give  you  anything, 
because  you  don't  want  it." 

"We'll  get  on  to  Winchester  now,"  said  Edgar,  with 
studied — even  ostentatious — patience.  "Because  I  want 
to  take  you  back  to  London  to  tea  with  some  friends  of 
ours — Olivia  and  Peter  Stephens." 

"Stephens?"  said  Patricia.  "Aren't  they  .  .  .  aren't 
they  the  married  people  who  are  happy?"  She  became 
thoughtful.  The  car  began  to  move;  but  she  was  uncon- 
scious of  everything  but  her  own  darting  intuitions. 
Amy  .  .  .  the  happy  young  lovers  .  .  .  what  had  Amy 
said?  For  an  instant  full  memory  of  the  conversation 
eluded  her.  Then  at  last.  "Why  take  me  there?"  she 
asked. 

"It'll  do  you  good  to  meet  some  real  people  for  a 
change,"  said  Edgar.  "Happy  people.  People  who 
haven't  got  their  heads  cluttered  with  sophistication  and 
egotism.  People  who  aren't  sterile  sensation-rakers,  and 
lascivious  fiddlers  with  their  senses." 

Again  Patricia  was  lost  in  thought.  His  rather  heated 
tone  was  a  natural  discouragement  to  her.  Suddenly  she 
gave  an  exclamation. 


332  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

"Oh,  babies!"  she  said.     She  did  not  open  her  lips 
again  until  the  car  arrived  in  Winchester. 


Vlll 

They  had  lunched,  and  were  again  upon  the  road ;  and 
the  bare  hedges  showed  Patricia  lands  that  stretched  full 
of  wood  and  copse  and  meadow  into  the  farthest  dis- 
tance. From  a  high  place  upon  a  common,  where  Edgar 
had  halted  for  the  sake  of  the  glorious  panorama,  she 
could  see  Hampshire  extending  upon  the  one  hand  and 
Surrey  upon  the  other.  She  was  very  happy  now,  but 
her  heart  a  little  ached.  It  was  the  breeze,  perhaps,  that 
chilled;  or  a  return  of  her  old  painful  feeling  of  lone- 
liness. .  .  .  But  as  Patricia  thought  that,  she  knew  sud- 
denly what  she  wanted,  and  Edgar  knew  it  also,  for  he 
put  his  arm  round  her. 

"My  old  sweet,"  he  said.  "Never  think  I  don't  love 
you, — as  much  as  any  Harry  or  Monty;  and  with  the 
same  warmth.  I  do.  You're  everything  to  me." 

His  lips  were  very  close;  and  still  Patricia  delayed, 
not  excited,  but  welcoming,  half-smiling,  half-afraid. 
She  was  shy.  She  had  not  been  shy  with  Harry  or  with 
Monty.  But  she  was  shy  with  Edgar.  From  him  a  kiss 
seemed  almost  ceremonial.  And  as  she  thought  that, 
Patricia  blushed. 

p 

"Don't  let's  go  to  the  Stephenses',"  she  said,  breath- 
lessly, her  head  lowered.  "I  know  why  you  want  me 
to  go  there.  Do  you  want  babies  so  much,  Edgar  ?  More 
than  you  want  me?  You  see,  I'm  ...  I  know  I'm  con- 
ceited and  horrible  .  .  .  but  it's  because  I  feel  so  worth- 
less." Lower  and  lower  sank  her  head,  to  his  breast, 
and  she  was  held  close  to  Edgar's  heart.  "Funny  heart, 
to  beat,"  she  said.  "You  do  love  me,  don't  you.  .  .  . 
Really  love  me.  ..." 


BABIES  333 

"Really,"  he  swore.     "All  my  heart." 

"And  you  think  I'm  an  idiot." 

"Yes." 

Patricia  hit  her  lover  a  sharp  blow  of  exasperation. 

"And  you  don't  think  I'm  wonderful." 

"No." 

She  sat  upright  again,  still  within  the  circle  of  his  arm'., 

"Has  your  car  got  a  name?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  Budge.  Claudia  named  him;  because  at  first 
he  wouldn't.  She  kept  saying  'He  won't  budge.  He 
won't  budge/  And  suddenly  he  did.  So  that's  how  he 
was  christened." 

"Well,"  said  Patricia,  as  though  she  were  concluding 
a  scene.  "This  is  all  very  well;  but  .  .  .  Edgar,  you  do 
love  me?  And  you'll  try  to  make  me  less  idiotic?  Of 
course,  I'm  not  in  love  with  you.  You  don't  attract  me 
at  all.  But  in  a  sort  of  way  you're  rather  nice." 

Her  lips  were  trembling.  She  blinked  away  some 
tears.  It  did  not  at  all  accord  with  her  anticipation  of 
romance.  And  yet  it  was  shot  through  and  through 
with  a  beautiful  tranquillity. 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  kiss  you,"  said  Edgar.  "I  can't 
if  you  turn  your  face  away.  Unless  I  slew  it  round  by 
force." 

"Silly !"  muttered  Patricia.  Edgar  exerted  force.  Not 
much  was  necessary.  Patricia  put  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  they  kissed,  and  then  laughed.  "Suppose 
we're  making  a  mistake,"  she  cried.  "Suppose  it's  all 
wrong." 

"After  all,  most  people  take  a  risk,"  said  Edgar. 

"I  don't  take  a  risk.  It's  you  who  take  the  risk,"  she 
answered.  "You  can  be  trusted.  I  can't.  Look  at  the 
way  I've  behaved.  I'm  a  rake!  Suppose  I  ran  away 
with  somebody?" 

"Then  I  should  keep  the  babies,"  said  Edgar. 


334*  THE  THREE  LOVERS 

Patricia  looked  indignantly  at  him. 

"You're  only  a  great  baby  yourself!"  she  said.  "How 
extraordinary !  And  I  thought  .  .  ."  She  was  amazed. 
It  was  a  discovery  of  the  most  astounding  significance 
to  her.  She  had  thought  of  him  always  hitherto  as  a 
grown-up.  Was  he  then  not  grown-up?  Her  eyes 
glowed.  "Edgar,  tell  me  this!"  she  exclaimed.  "Are 
you  afraid  of  me?" 

"I  am,"  said  Edgar. 

"Truly  afraid  ?    And  do  you  think  I'm  a  poor  insect  ?" 

"I  think  you're  the  most  wonderful  creature  that  ever 
lived.  I  adore  you,"  said  Edgar. 

Great  tears  splashed  from  Patricia's  eyes.  Laughing, 
she  held  him  closely,  and  impulsively  kissed  the  brown 
cheek  next  her  own. 

"Dearest!"  she  cried.  "It's  a  dream.  I  didn't  know 
I  ...  I  didn't  realise  how  much  I  loved  you,  until  just 
exactly  that  moment  when  I  saw  you  were  nothing  but 
a  silly  baby.  But  you're  artful,  you  know!  You're  a 
deep  one."  Ruminatingly,  she  presently  added :  "I'm  not 
so  sure  about  those  risks." 

She  was  strangely  exalted  and  happy,  and  her  face 
was  the  funny  face  of  a  baby;  and  she  sometimes  could 
not  meet  Edgar's  eyes,  and  sometimes  boldly  sought 
them;  and  altogether  was  mystified  by  her  own  sensa- 
tions, and  by  the  odd  thoughts  which  came  sparkling  into 
her  mind  and  on  to  her  tongue.  The  two  of  them  con- 
tinued to  sit  in  Budge  and  to  be  consumed  in  the  marvel 
of  their  situation.  Around  them  the  wind  played  and 
the  sun  shone  as  it  travelled  towards  the  west,  and  the 
counties  continued  to  subsist  as  if  no  lovers  sat  high 
above  them  absorbed  in  joy. 

THE   END. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


'>"ppp    MAR 


MAR  1 7  3 


Utett 


JU115 


Book  Slip-25m-9,'60(.B2.936s4)4280 


A    001299495    0 

UCLA-College  Library 

PR  6037897th 


College 
Library 

PR 

6037 

S97th 


II    II I  I      II I II  Inlll 

L  005  761  382  0 


